Release
by blc
Summary: My spin on the cliched Booth has to go away story. Major angst to start, eventual romance, fluff at the end. Post PITH, pre S 4. Bones isn't mine, etc. Ch. 20, post trial & Ch. 21, the initial release revisited, and the end of our fairy tale, ch. 22-24.
1. Chapter 1

She was heartsore and exhausted. The case had been brutal-- the discovery of two toddlers' remains leading to four more. The evidence led to two American-pie-seeming brothers, who, when confronted, confessed in sickening detail. Sweets had left the observation room to retch, once, and Brennan had to enter the interrogation room twice to keep Booth from doing something the cameras would catch. The confession led to their basement, and the last four children-- all butchered less than a month ago. They'd been so close. For the first time, she lost her stomach at a scene, bolting out of the basement and into the street, before collapsing over the gutter. She wasn't the only one doing so.

She was worried about Booth. He'd been nearly manic with rage and anguish until they got the confessions, hounding himself and the team to find every last clue, even as she did. But when the killers confessed, and she came back into the room that second time, it was like he shut down. He asked the rest of the questions, did everything to his usual excellent standards, but there was no visible emotion in him. His only real show was when he came over to hand her water and a towel as she heaved into the gutter. He'd dropped her home, declined the invitation upstairs. Now, she'd showered and changed, and contemplated how to reach out to Booth.

She picked up her phone, deciding, just as the key turned in her lock. It was him, and he looked as he had earlier-- not there, somehow.

"Come in," she said, as he stood in the doorway. "I was just calling you."

"Were you?" he asked, standing still.

"I was," she replied, coming forward to show him the display. He looked at it and then back at her in slow motion.

"You were. Thanks, Bones."

She tugged him inside and then locked up after him. He just stood there, looking around, so she played the protector for once, and took off his jacket, unholstered his weapon, and set them to the chair where he usually put them.

"Come on in," she said, tugging him forward, until he resisted her pull as they stood in front of her counter. His vacant look was less disconcerting than what she could see swirling just underneath-- all the emotion he'd built since the start of the case. She stepped in and pulled him into a hug, one arm circling his waist as the other reached up to his shoulders. He stood stock still, the warmth of her holding him only gradually registering, until her circling hands on his back drove the thoughts that consumed him since this afternoon.

"I wanted to kill them. Still do. I should have done it right there, with the cameras running. I don't care. I might still, if I can figure a way out."

Her arms didn't loosen-- they actually tightened around him. "I know. If we were anyplace else, I'd have helped you."

He looked down at her then, and saw she was telling the truth. What a strange kind of solace, to be assured by the woman he loved that his murderous urges were shared. He was always afraid that she didn't understand all the things he was capable of, not from duty, but rage. Here she was, though, accepting and echoing his statement, as he needed her to. She was the only one who never questioned him-- and he needed that, needed her. She was as committed to their work as he was, and loyal, and fierce, but he still worried that someday, he would do something that scared her. That possibility, brought back by her entry into the room, was the only thing that stopped him today from grabbing that pen on the table and gouging their eyes out. If he scared her, and she left him? Ceased to be his friend and his partner? Well, wanting her as his lover and wife took a far back seat to not having her in his life at all. It would be worse than as if he'd never known her-- to have lost someone who trusted him, despite knowing who he was.

She squeezed him again in her arms, and her hand at his shoulder came up to the back of his neck. He let her pull his head to her shoulder, and he wrapped his own arms around her, pulling them so tightly together that their ribs creaked as they breathed. Neither let go. He inhaled her scent. She was clean, and warm, and she cared about what happened. Cared about him. She felt the rock hard tension in his muscles and worried further for him-- to have tamped down all that adrenaline wasn't healthy. He could probably run two marathons on the energy of it. She threaded her fingers through his hair-- it had always made her feel better when her mother had done so. She stifled the urge to kiss him-- he was hurting, and she didn't want to take advantage of him by thrusting her since-his-death now realized unpartnerly urges onto him.

Her warmth didn't calm him-- it just melted the ice he'd mustered to make it through the rest of the day. Her touch transformed all the rage and despair into sheer desperate need for her, not that he hadn't needed and wanted her already, but tonight it was out of control. He'd been close to the breaking point all day, but now the killing rage was an all consuming need to bury himself in her, in the hope she could make him forget. He couldn't-- he wouldn't-- he wanted her most in the world, but he was too dangerous, and she was innocent and perfect in the way she believed in finding the truth. He would manage to spoil that.

Though it was physically painful, he dropped his arms from around her. She looked up at him, her arms still around him, and reached up a hand to stroke the side of his face. "It hurts to do the right thing sometimes," she said, softly. "And the right thing doesn't always feel right at all." The compassion and understanding and shared righteous anger in her expression was too much for him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, damning his body's unwillingness to step away from her completely. Tears of frustration at his own weakness started to leak from his shut eyelids, and he r heart broke a little at how much he was still hurting. She smoothed the few tears that escaped with her hand, and he flinched at the tender gesture. Too close, too close. Her hand caressed his pain-etched forehead, as she said "It won't be alright, but it will get easier to work around."

It wasn't her words that broke him. It was that understanding tone. He seized the hand stroking his face, his eyes still closed, and pressed the palm to his mouth, kissing it hungrily. He pulled her arm up as he clasped her to him, pressing desperate kisses on the delicate skin inside her arm. She inhaled, shakily, astonished and yet not by his need for her, her own answering need from before coupling with tonight's new grief so strongly that she closed her eyes against drowning in it.

Her half-swooned response drove him over the edge. Sweeping the things off her counter onto the floor, he lifted her up and tore her shirt open, burying his head in her breasts as his hands worked at her pants. She was clinging to him, her hands fumbling at his shirt, as he greedily sucked and nipped at her breasts, grunting in satisfaction as her pants came undone. He lifted her, one armed, as he yanked her pants down, and she hit the counter with a slight thud. The slight loss of breath at the impact was magnified thousandfold when she started to reach to remove her bra, and he growled "no," in her ear right before he tore the straps with his hands and cast them away. His mouth returned immediately to her breasts, and she gasped as his fiery mouth claimed her nipple as his other hand held her in place at her back. She was half limp against the hand supporting her, and the sight of her milky breasts jutting upward, her pink areolas tautened from his attentions drew him onward.

"Oh, fuck, I need you," he groaned, then nuzzled and bit, sucked and kissed her from the long column of her throat to her belly. She gasped and mewled, writhing against him, her hands in his hair her only way to hold on as his passion overwhelmed her. He managed to unbuckle his own pants and push them away before tearing her panties from her, and pushing her back on her counter so he could spread her and see her. Her rosy folds were already sleek with wetness, her musky sweet scent rising, and he pulled her forward until he could spear himself into her. She clenched as soon as he entered her, the unexpected release from the depth and force of his thrust drawing a scream from her, and his own answering shout. He gripped her, one hand at her hip and one arm up her back, fingers curling over her shoulder from behind to brace her, as his body took over. His thrusts were frantic and forceful, and she answered with whimpers and groans each time he filled her to the hilt. She clung to him, and her noises were driving him crazy. She screamed with another wracking release, her fingers and arms around him losing their strength, as she stiffened, then became limp, falling back into his hand. He braced her while he shed the rest of his clothes, leaving them where they fell as he tossed them behind him.

Then he lifted her, grabbing her under her legs, until he found the nearest wall, then ground her into it, just managing to get his hand between her head and the wall. He adjusted his grip on her legs, before his hips demanded he pound into her again. She arched and screamed "Oh!" or "Booth!" each time his weight pinned her again to the wall, then wailed as another release found her as he exploded within her.

His pulse was still hammering through him as he opened his eyes to look at her-- panting and flushed, eyes glazed with surprise and desire. That was enough to set him off again, and he picked her up and headed back to where he thought her bedroom was located. He kicked the door open, the wood bouncing off something hard inside, and deposited her in the middle of her bed, crawling in over her, as she panted and looked at him, eyes still dazed from the shock of their joining, and the fact that despite her intense orgasms already, she still needed him, still felt like there were things from this case they both needed to forget. He bent down to kiss her, and she pulled his mouth closer to hers, her hands half-pulling, half clinging, as she groaned into his mouth. Their tongues warred, less with each other and more with the need to somehow express their need to be absorbed by the other. The taste of her mouth made him drunk, and the thought of that taste brought thoughts of another. Tearing his mouth from hers, he shifted downward and spread her legs again, the half-light from the hall illuminating her still-engorged clitoris-- she was still so aroused he could practically see it throbbing. He dove in, feasted on her, sucking their mingled tastes as he lapped at her and sucked at her clitoris. She thrashed, her hands slapping uselessly on the bed as he nipped at her, reduced soon to short, almost guttural cries as his tongue thrust inside her, then left only to nibble and suck in an alternation that drove her over the edge, again and again.

For each begging, pleading, "I can't," he proved that she could, and when his hands returned to her breasts, his palms rolling her flesh under them as he squeezed her aching, burning nipples with his fingers, she shattered all over again.

It was passionate, but not gentle. It was desperate and hungry, their need for each other and for release from the grief and rage for the case driving them both. Three plus years of waiting for him, and at least a year of desire for her, couldn't be spent in one night, but each of them felt the burn inside them, and needed to try. He would enter her, driving with and against her until they both exploded again, only to be seized again by the need to keep tasting her, feeling her, making her scream for him. She felt herself molded by him, let herself be twisted and bent each time he entered her. From behind, astride, standing, against the wall again, prone, his hands pinning hers to the bed as he hammered into her-- each thrust given and met drove a bit more of it out, but her responses to him drove him long past the point of release that the case demanded. He'd lay her down again, intending this time to collapse with her, but a whimper or moan of his name, a flutter of her eyelashes, a shiver of aftershock running through her would bring it all back.

He'd tasted and touched every part of her body, shocking her with his inventiveness, his ability to draw a release from her with practically every touch. She called his name over and over as he grunted and growled, and shouted her name when he came, always inside her. She had never been so passive before, but each time she started to get her strength back, to reach for him, he would be on her again, and she could only call out his name, or whine, or cling to him, or keen from another wracking release.

It was hours before the fire dwindled in him. He would think it was finally dying, and then she'd say his name again, and it would set him off. It was insane, and he was exhausted even as he couldn't stop holding her, touching her, tasting her. Finally though, as if someone had doused him with a bucket of water, or a fire hose, it was quenched with a last groaning shout as she clung to him, a rasping call from her echoing his own release. He collapsed with her, pulling her to him as he fell to his side, and she panted, eyes closed, against him. She was beyond exhausted, utterly limp, drenched in sweat. She could barely keep her eyes open, but she forced herself to look at him, to try to understand if what was driving him had finally let him go. He was as exhausted as she was, but when he returned her gaze, he seemed himself again, merely as heart-sore and exhausted as after any hard case, and not seized by the grief and rage that had taken him, understandably so, this time. She shivered as their bodies cooled, and tried to push herself upward to grab at the covers, but found herself limply swiping at them instead, then flopping backward into the bed. He wasn't much better off and only by gritting his teeth and groaning as he pushed himself upward did he manage to sit up far enough to find them and pull them up over them.

He flopped back into the bed, and she lay there, wheezing, eyes sealed closed. He missed her already against him, and with an enormous exertion, turned and curled himself around her, pulling her flush against him. He was too tired for words, and she was too, so she patted the hand encircling her waist, and fell into sleep. He followed her shortly.

- - - -

He woke confused-- he didn't know where he was, immediately, other than that it was someplace warm, and soft, and unfamiliar. Then her scent entered his nose and he opened his eyes to see the top of her head, tucked into him, her body curled against his. He only gradually remembered what led them there, to her bed, and he gently slid his arm out from beneath her, as he began to remember how he had literally pounced on her. Ravenous would be one word to describe how he'd acted. Desperate was another. Animalistic was perhaps better. He was instantly ashamed, terrified, even, of how she would respond when she woke, and he slid further back so he could look at her, gain some clue from her sleeping demeanor.

She looked as tired and sad as she'd been when she'd answered the door last night, sleep's normal abandon not erasing the faint lines of worry she'd worn as the case wore on. She rolled from her side where he'd been holding her, onto her back, the covers sliding down from her shoulder as she moved. She was deeply asleep, and didn't murmur or seem to notice as he left her. The fallen-away blanket corner exposed her shoulder to him as she slept.

He stilled, guts turning to ice, as he pulled the covers further away. There were bruises all over her, finger and thumb marks on her shoulders and arms where he'd gripped her, at her hips and waist, even some midway up her thighs where he'd held her legs over his shoulders while he rutted into her. There was beard burn on her breasts and inner thighs, her lips bright red and swollen from the onslaught of his kisses. He couldn't have marked her any more thoroughly if he'd branded her, and the nausea he'd tamped down yesterday at the recovery of those last four children rose up uncontrollably. He bolted for her bathroom, heaving into the toilet over and over again at the knowledge he'd hurt her. She'd never told him to stop, never pushed him away, but the markings on her made it clear to him that even if she had, she wouldn't have been able to stop him, as strong as she was. His mind stuttered over the terms legal people could call what had happened. He heaved again. He knelt there, miserable, until the heaves stopped, then rose to look in the mirror.

He didn't look like he'd ravaged his partner-- he was completely unscathed. She'd left no claw marks, no bruises on him. From his outward appearance, he merely still looked exhausted by a grueling case-- except for the haunted, half-mad look in his eye he now recognized. He saw that look in the mirror the first time he killed an innocent who stepped into the path of his rifle. He heaved again into the sink, then cleaned it out, flushed the toilet, washed his mouth out with her mouthwash, wiped his face off with her washcloth. Had he even used protection? He was clean, and he was sure she was too, but pregnancy was always an option. He didn't think he'd been wearing a condom. He doubted he'd even had any in his wallet if he'd thought of it-- it had been a while since he'd felt like meeting anyone new.

What was he going to do? How was he going to look her in the eye when she woke? All the stupid bright hopes he'd ever had for the two of them, flushed down the toilet because he couldn't keep control of himself. He'd been right to think he was dangerous, wrong to think he could protect her from him. He'd failed her. He'd possibly ruined her. He'd definitely ruined them. He went out to the living room, not willing to look again at what he'd done to her yet. He nearly heaved again at the sight of their clothes strewn everywhere, most of hers torn. It was still dark outside, only three am -- if he crept off in the night like a coward, he might as well stop off at the Hoover and turn in his badge and his gun before running completely. As much as he was sure it would ruin him, he had to face her.

Restless with anguish, he started collecting their things from around the apartment. His clothes weren't nearly as bad off as hers were, and he slipped on his shorts for lack of some better thought of what to do with them. As he folded his pants, his phone started buzzing in his pocket. Goddamnit-- Cullen's number. Not another case.

"Booth," his hoarse voice rasped.

"You sound like hell," his boss said. "Look, I'm sorry to call, that was a hell of a case yesterday, but I need you on a flight to Boise in three hours."

"What? I can't! I... you don't understand!" He couldn't leave. Any hope he had of convincing Bones to not kill him, or cut him out of her life, or call the-- no, he wouldn't think about that yet-- would evaporate the minute he left, even if it was for work.

"I'm sorry-- there's no choice. McFadden's escaped, and he was last seen heading for Idaho. They think he's headed toward one of those survivalist groups up there." Of course. The one domestic terrorist only Booth would be able to re-capture and he'd picked now to escape.

"Look... I... I can't," he stuttered.

"Booth, if you're worried about your partner thinking you've gone belly up again, I promise I will personally tell her first thing in the morning. You're right, she can be trusted with national security, especially since she'd never work with the Bureau again if I kept her out of the loop this time."

"That's not all of it... look, there are some... conversations I have to have before I go, Sam. Give me until noontime."

"No can do. No need to pack, either. It's undercover, just come here and equipment will give you the things that you'll need. Look Booth, I'm sorry, but I'll make sure Dr. Brennan and your son's mother know that you're working and that you had no choice but to go. Get yourself down here, though. It's going to take a while to brief you."

"Twenty minutes."

"See you then."

He dressed, robotically. His button down shirt that he'd worn over the tshirt was ruined, the button holes torn, so he left it behind. He laced up his boots and holstered his weapon, and then trudged into her bedroom, sitting lightly on the side of her bed. "Temperance," he called, stroking her cheek. "Bones, hey, I need you to wake up." She shifted and moaned as she rolled onto a bruised shoulder, and he swallowed a wash of bile. "Bones, please, wake up a bit," he said, stroking her cheek again. She didn't respond-- she was too deeply exhausted to wake.

He crept out of the bedroom, and rummaged for paper in her living room. He scrawled his note with a shaking hand, folded it, placed it on the pillow where she couldn't miss it, and was gone.

- - - - -

She woke, sore and exhausted, still slightly stunned by what had happened between them, to find she was alone in the bed. She rolled over, and her hand hit something paper. Blinking her eyes open, she saw it read "Temperance" on the folded-over outside, in Booth's scrawl.

_"Temperance,_

_If I had any choice I would still be here-- I tried to wake you to tell you myself. I'm so sorry. Sam Cullen will explain everything in the morning-- please listen to what he has to say. I had no idea when I came here last night that this would come up. I hope you'll believe that, no matter what. I'm sorry. I love you. Though I wouldn't believe it if I were you, after what happened. I never wanted to hurt you._

_Booth."_


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Many thanks for your enthusiastic reviews! I know the subject's not the most inventive, and there are few more of my twists on cliches to come, but I do hope you'll continue to enjoy the story as it progresses. And don't worry. There will definitely be more angst before there's a (for B & B at least) happy ending.**

* * *

Brennan's heart sank at what the note betrayed of his mental state when he left her, though the admission of love didn't surprise her. Goodness knew, she'd been denying her own feelings until last night's boil-over. But the note made clear, and she believed it, that he hadn't willingly left her-- and she believed that he did try to wake her. She was still feeling groggy. She was sure she had slept like the dead. What she was worried about was the "_though I wouldn't believe it if I were you_" part. His catholic guilt and his own insecurities over her past were behind it, she was sure. There was no other way he could have convinced himself that she hadn't been a completely willing participant-- surely he knew that if she hadn't wanted him, she wouldn't have hesitated to kick him in the testicles, or otherwise disarm him? And surely he knew, that she of all people, knew and understood what drove him and the way he responded to things? The extent of his response had been a little surprising, yes, but he was a strong and passionate man. When he reacted, he reacted completely. For once, he, not she, was the one overthinking things, she decided, with a pained sense of irony.

She sat up and regarded herself further in the light coming in through the window. Yes, she was bruised from the force of their joining, where he'd held her and kissed her. The facts were that she bruised easily, he hadn't had time with this case to shave in two days, and they both had a lot of tension and anger and grief to burn off, especially him. She'd certainly had bruises from far less vigorous sex, but he wouldn't know that. Whatever Booth thought, bruised did not equal hurt, though she expected she'd be tender and sore for a few days. The foolish man was guilting himself for something she'd consented to, and while enjoyed wasn't the right word for what happened, she'd needed it almost as much as he had. She thought no differently of him than before-- perhaps even better, that he'd been willing to give into his grief around her, and amazed at the depth of emotion for her that he'd managed to bury for so long. She shook her head. She was a fool for not saying something as soon as he came back from the dead. Him and his stupid line-- like they hadn't crossed it each time they killed someone for the other, line of duty or not.

She groaned as she swung her legs out of bed. Definitely sore for a few days. She pulled on her robe, slowly, then made her way out to her cell phone, abandoned on the front table when she came in. With a snort, she noted that anguished or not, he'd cleaned up the living room of their scattered belongings. He was a law unto himself. She hoped he wouldn't hold himself to whichever one he thought he'd broken with her.

She tried his cell, straight away, and it went to voice mail. She hadn't expected to reach him-- either he was on a plane, or out of contact entirely. But she left a message anyway, taking a deep breath before hand-- the time and date stamp might be important to both of them, later. "It's Temperance. I got your note. You didn't hurt me. I love you too. Come home soon." Her hand shook as she ended the call. She wasn't good at heartfelt, romantic confessions. She hoped blunt honesty would do.

She then called Cullen, at the number she had for him, his secretary's line. It was early, he might not even be in, but she could leave a message, and if he spoke to Booth before he spoke with Brennan again, he could at least convey that she'd called him. Booth would probably be fretting himself useless.

"Dr. Brennan, hello," the man answered immediately. Brennan was startled at how quickly she'd been put through.

She cleared her throat, her voice hoarse from the evening. "Director Cullen. Booth left a note, and said to call you."

"Yes, that's correct. I'm not at liberty to discuss it over the phone, but perhaps you'd be able to come in sometime today to meet with me, so I can explain. Agent Booth was quite insistent that there be no misunderstanding this time as to his whereabouts."

She chuffed a laugh. "I appreciate that." She paused, and looked at the time-- 7 am already, she'd slept long past her usual waking at 5 am. "I could come in around 11 if that's convenient."

"That would be fine. Thank you. Just... you should know Booth was really distressed about the idea of leaving. Was there some further development on yesterday's case?"

Brennan paused. "No. It was something personal, I believe. I'll see you shortly."

She hung up, slightly at a loss of what to do next. She was sore and tired anyway, and for once, the thought of work was not an encouragement. Well, there was nothing for it. She was going to need help in figuring out how to handle Booth. He'd probably talked himself into handing himself into the police by now, or whenever this secret assignment was over.

She dialed the lab, and was again surprised at the phone's being answered immediately. "Cam, it's Temperance Brennan."

"Hello, Dr. Brennan. Is everything alright? I was sorry to see the remains that arrived last evening."

"Yes, well... I won't be in until later this afternoon to deal with them, perhaps not at all, I'm afraid. Something came up and I've got to go over to the Hoover to deal with it. The graduate student can get started on the x-rays while you make your examinations, and I'll be available by phone to confer. I do expect I will be in tomorrow."

"Well, thank you for letting me know. We'll see you then."

She hung up the phone and then dialed a familiar cell number.

"Angela."

"Sweetie, so early. What's going on?"

"Look, something happened and I need your advice. I told Cam I wouldn't be in today, that I'd be at the Hoover, but I don't have to be there until 12. Is there any way you could come over, even for just a little?"

"Are you alright?"

Brennan sighed. "Basically, yes. I'm more worried about Booth."

"Why? What happened?" The artist's voice took on a tinge of alarm. As much as she wanted the two of them to get together, she loved them each as friends, separately. This case had been hell on both of them.

"Look, it's complicated. You'll see when you get here."

"I'll be there in an hour."

"Thank you."

- - - -

He'd wadded the clothes into her hamper, lost to decide what to do with them, she supposed. A wet washcloth on the top of the hamper and a faint smell in the air caught her interest. Raising the cloth under her nose, her heart twisted. Poor Booth. He'd been Mr. Iron Stomach yesterday, but after guilting himself, he'd probably heaved himself dry. She had to make sure he knew things were alright as soon as she possibly could. His violent reaction to the thought that he might have hurt her was only further proof of his statement of love. What a perverse pair they were, that she should find his vomiting his guts out reassuring.

She managed a shower, hissing as she washed tender areas, and inspecting again the fingermarks that he'd left. They looked bad, but she honestly hadn't felt any pain during their making, she was so consumed by everything else that was happening. Same with the beard burn.

She'd just wrapped her hair in a towel, and clad herself in her softest, silkiest robe, when the doorbell rang. Angela was early.

As her friend opened the door, Angela took in Brennan's worried expression, passion-stung lips, and a few faint finger bruises on the side of her jaw. "What happened?" she said, laying her fingers gently over one of the spots as soon as Brennan closed the door behind them. The anthropologist sighed, and led her over to the couch, sitting down, one leg curled underneath her. She spoke haltingly, watching Angela for her reactions as she began to explain, still deciding how much to tell and how much to leave private-- for Booth.

"Booth came over last night and was... very upset. We were hugging, and it... changed." She paused, as Angela waited. "Have you ever had sex after a traumatic event, the way it consumes you as you try to drive out the emotions?"

Angela nodded, for once, speechless.

"Well, this was that, not just him, but for me, too. It... took a while, and it... was... forceful, and Angela, I needed it as much as he did." Her eyes pleaded for Angela to understand. "I was too worn out at the end of it to make sure he knew it was okay, I thought he could tell, but... he got called away in the night while I was sleeping. He left me this." She took the folded note from her robe pocket and handed it to the artist, who opened and read it.

"Bren," she said softly, saddened by the whole situation. He finally tells her he loves her, and it happens like this. Life just wasn't fair. "This note just screams guilt. Poor Booth. Poor you. Aside from that," she said, pointing again to Brennan's jaw, "why else did he think that he'd hurt you?"

Brennan flushed, not from embarrassment over her body or the marks present, since she knew their reason and source, but at the way they could be misinterpreted. By Booth. She hoped not by Angela. "It's easier to show you than tell you," she said, then stood and opened her robe, slipping it back on her shoulders and arms, down to her elbows.

Angela managed to keep a straight face despite her initial shock. Bren was essentially calm, worried for Booth, not herself. Ange herself had woken with marks she could never remember getting, afterward, and it was true, Bren bruised like a peach. She looked like she'd gone rounds as a punching bag the first time they moved into an apartment together in college, and that just involved hauling a few dozen boxes up and down stairs. She observed, quietly, and made up her mind. "No bite marks, no scratches, just beard burn and fingermarks. Like he was holding on for dear life."

Brennan's face cleared instantly, and Angela was relieved that she could be of some reassurance. "Exactly," she breathed, as she refastened the robe and reseated herself. "There's a lot, yes, but you know I bruise easily. He doesn't. I never got a chance to explain."

"So what can I do?"

Brennan thought for a moment. "Just... when he comes back, he may need convincing. If he knows that I called you right after, that you saw, that I'm fine, that you believe me, then maybe it will help."

Angela nodded. "I can do that. I'm sorry things started this way."

Brennan nodded, eyes softening and wistful and sad. "Me too. I hope... he'll believe me, and that I..." Her voice trailed off. Even though she'd already told him in her message, now she was having a hard time saying she loved him aloud, even to Angela. "That I love him too, and that it's okay."

Angela swiped a tear, and decided a change of subject was in order. "Okay. Well, you said you've got to get into the Hoover? Let's get some makeup on you so Booth's boss won't think you do were doing the S & M naughty before Booth shipped out."

Brennan shook her head resignedly. "Thank you. There's rumor enough around the two of us."

- - - -

Deputy Director Cullen regarded the anthropologist as she entered his office. She was a deep one. She seemed cool at first, but he'd learned better since then. She was a firebrand, moreso than his Agent-- he'd heard of how she harangued Booth about things no sane armed Agent would ever bring up. He'd been at the funeral, too, and was floored not just by the quick thinking way she clobbered that terrorist, but the right hook she pounded Booth with. He could understand from that response why his agent was so insistent she be informed of his whereabouts this time. He wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of that fist of hers, either.

"Dr. Brennan, please, sit," he said, half rising. The woman looked tired, but her piercing gaze was intact, under the crease of concern on her forehead. When she'd seated herself, he began.

"We got a call at midnight that a domestic terrorist Booth brought in the first time had escaped. It took forever to track him the last time, and by his planned whereabouts this time, it was determined that Booth had to do a solo undercover attempt to recover or... eliminate the escaped prisoner. I called Booth at three once I'd confirmed the news. He shipped out at six."

The crease in her forehead relaxed slightly, but she still looked concerned. She replied softly. "I left him a message on his phone once I read his note, but I suppose he's out of contact."

Cullen nodded. "Correct. His only contacts will be weekly, to me, once he's established. I'm afraid I don't know how long he'll be gone. If you have a message for him, I could pass it on, if you like." This last was offered hesitantly. Booth was close-mouthed about his private life to begin with, and there were a ton of rumors about the two of them all over the Bureau, but Sweets had never confirmed they were involved, and in any event, they were his best working partnership. He didn't suppose Dr. Brennan would be quick to offer him a love note.

The anthropologist thought for a long moment. Inside, she laughed hysterically as she thought of what her bluntest, most honest answer would be. "_Yes, tell him I love him and that it's okay that the first time we had sex I ended up looking like the losing half of a rugby match._" That wouldn't work. "Please tell him that I got his note, and he has nothing to worry about." She paused, and thought a bit longer, a small smile at the edge of her mouth. "Please also tell him I'll be testing my overdrive."

Cullen kept his thoughts to himself. That was a code, if he'd ever heard one, at least the last part. Maybe he should move them to cryptography. Or move Booth, and see if Dr. Brennan would follow. "Fine. You got his note, nothing to worry about, testing your overdrive." She nodded, approving.

The director paused for a moment, then spoke again. "I do need to ask, and I don't mean to sound callous, but..."

Brennan smiled lightly. "I will be glad to assist with field recoveries as needed, and if an Agent would like my assistance in other aspects of the investigation during Booth's absence, I will be glad to provide it."

Cullen's shoulders untensed in relief. They needed her a hell of a lot more than she needed them. She didn't need them at all, to be honest. He'd make sure that the agents she worked with handled her with kid gloves, or they'd answer to Booth and to him. Preferably to Cullen, first, in a manner that would satisfy Booth. The man was scary when it came to protecting his partner.

"Thank you, Dr. Brennan, it's appreciated. And I'll make sure to pass your message on to Booth."

"Thank you, sir." She rose and regarded him for one more moment, then turned and left the room. Cullen reflected that she looked extremely weary, and no wonder. That last case had been hell. It was a good thing the two of them were so attuned to each other. Cases like that could really mess with your head.

- - - - -

Booth reached the field office within an hour of landing, and comandeered a private window office with a phone immediately. He didn't really care if they thought he was an asshole, so long as they did what he told them. Bones was the only one that mattered. He'd be essentially alone on this trip, once he set up contacts and arranged for equipment. He'd declined everything but water on the never-ending flights and horrid connections, knowing he'd just puke if he ate anything. That there hadn't been federal marshals waiting for him at the airport meant something, but he had to talk to Cullen straight away.

He got Cullen's secretary right away. "Debbie, it's Booth."

"Hi, hold on, he's on the other line."

Booth's heart started pounding double-time as he waited. Every second was killing him.

"Booth, you made it."

"Yes, sir."

"Flights alright?"

"They sucked, but we didn't crash, so that's something." Cullen snorted, but Booth had been serious. Everything was relative until he got the news he really needed.

"Well, fine. Field office will give you anything that you need, they've been briefed while you were flying. Dr. Brennan came in and I spoke with her. She seemed to take the news calmly. She said she'd be available for fieldwork as needed. She had a message for you."

Booth opted for a noncommital noise, rather than the squeaked adolescent "What?" that he was sure was all he would muster.

"She said she got your note, and there's nothing to worry about. Also, that she's testing her overdrive?"

Booth could have cried in relief-- hell, he did, his eyes starting to water as he sat there. He managed a gruff "Thanks."

"Well... you get settled, and call me again before you go under."

Booth swallowed the lump of release of his fear in his throat. It felt like a rock in his stomach. "Will do sir."

Cullen paused. "Anything else I should tell Dr. Brennan?"

Booth thought for a moment. "Yes. Marco."

Cullen laughed. "As in Polo?"

"Yes."

"I'm sending you both to cryptography. You could teach our boys a thing or too."

"I'll speak with you later this week, sir."

Cullen agreed, and rang off. For all he knew, he'd just delivered mash notes between the two of them. What the hell did Italian explorers have to do with anything? Well, if he couldn't figure them out, then there was little danger of it interfering with their work. Booth, meanwhile, leant back in his chair, his hands over his face, and whispered two words.

"Thank you."


	3. Chapter 3

The day after Booth left, late in the afternoon, Brennan returned to the Hoover, file work in hand from this last, horrific case. After she'd seen Cullen, she returned to the lab after all, unwilling to leave the last four children without names and identities. With no mystery to solve as to how they came to be where they were, Brennan felt as though her work was taking place in a surreal bubble. She was cataloguing injuries with Cam, noting everything that had happened to the children while Angela worked on identity, but she felt apart from it all. She worked all night and into the morning to finish documenting the childrens' deaths, and at noontime, Angela had names for each child. Brennan took the information, worked it all into the four new victim folders she'd opened, and completed the paperwork that she and Booth always did at the end of the case. Her heart was heavier, if possible, than it had been yesterday afternoon right after finding the four, and the ten victim folders plus the primary case file weighed a ton. She never knew paper could be so invested with grief.

She meant to leave the papers with Charlie, the desk jockey in Booth's department with whom she was most familiar, but when he caught sight of her, he foreclosed that line of action. "Dr. Brennan, hello. Deputy Director Cullen said you should bring the paperwork up to him, and he'll finish it off."

The pudgy desk agent regarded his boss' partner as she absorbed the information. She was as put together as always, but looked like she hadn't slept in days-- like Booth had before he'd disappeared on this mission thing. He didn't envy her having to clean up the paperwork after his boss left. Those forms were a beast. But unlike Booth, who got cranky as hell and was known to curse every form under the sun, Dr. Brennan merely looked resigned and exhausted at the prospect of spending any time longer with the files.

Other people in the office had a pool on for when Booth would, in office parlance, "tap that hot partner of his," but Charlie'd stayed out of it. He sat with a partial view into Booth's office, and had observed the doctor's comings and goings, and expressions as each case progressed. She might have been hot, but she wasn't some flake squint. She took the cases seriously, and argued the cop angles with Booth as well as the squinty ones. He would have felt guilty betting on someone who was obviously half cop at heart-- and someone Booth was clearly, well, Charlie didn't know if he'd say Booth was in love with her, but it was clear as hell no one would mess with the doctor if Booth had something to say about it.

She wasn't always easy to work with, but then, neither was Booth. But they solved cases, which the office gossips never seemed to pay attention to.

Brennan sighed softly-- she'd hoped she was done for the day. "Thanks, Charlie," she said, turning tired, sad eyes on the desk agent. Contrary to popular belief, it wasn't that she didn't care what people's names were-- she just got caught up in her work, so much so that things like introductions and talk in the background during her examinations at the scene simply didn't register. But she'd been here enough to know Charlie, at least. "I'll head up now."

"I'll let him know," he replied, then watched as she strode off to the elevator, stiffer and slower than usual. That case had been hell if even she was feeling it. He sometimes thought she was tougher than Booth.

- - - -

Cullen, forewarned, looked up when the anthropologist walked in. If anything, she looked even worse than yesterday. She must have stayed up all night to finish those remains and complete the report. No one could doubt her dedication to their victims, he reflected.

"Dr. Brennan, thank you," he said, taking the forms and setting them in his lap. "If you don't mind, let me flip through these to see if I have any questions, and then I can finish them off and get them to Caroline Julian." The anthropologist nodded, and sat, absently rolling her neck on her shoulders and stetching her arms out in front of her, cracking her knuckles. Every bone in her body hurt, even her teeth. After this was over, she was going to go home and go right to sleep. She'd eaten before she'd come over-- at lunchtime, Dr. Hodgins had threatened to dump a hummus plate and a fresh cup of coffee over the remains if she didn't stop for ten minutes to eat-- so she could go straight to bed without Booth's voice nagging at her, saying "Bones, you've got to eat something."

Cullen, meanwhile, flipped through the file in amazement. She'd filled out everything, in her neat, meticulous hand, even the parts that Booth would normally complete. She'd gotten all the legalese and Bureau abbreviations right, too. Of course, she probably spoke 20 languages. Legal bullshit couldn't be hard after that. He signed off where Booth normally would, and set them aside, looking up to smile at her encouragingly. "Much better than Booth's chicken scratch." A faint look of confusion passed over her face as she thought, "oh, he must mean deplorable penmanship." The director continued. "Though after what, almost four years now? you could probably forge his signature, too."

Brennan mused on the remark. She'd never thought of it, but it might make an interesting project. Not that she'd ever use it, but forgery skills might be relevant in some future case, so perhaps she might give it a try. "I've never tried," she responded. "It sounds like a project." Her half-smile at the director told him she was probably joking, and he laughed even as he reflected that she'd looked a little to thoughtful, initially. He couldn't remember her ever making a joke in front of him, and now he wondered if he'd just missed them. The small, child-like smile that bloomed when he laughed at her joke, though. Wow. Good thing he was married.

"Well, it's all perfectly done, Dr. Brennan, and you have my undying thanks. I did give Booth your message, by the way, and he said to give you one in return."

He could have sworn the doctor inhaled slightly with some emotion, but she hadn't changed her expression at all. Perhaps he was mistaken.

"Yes?" she replied.

"He said Marco."

A near instantaneous flash of relief crossed her face, along with something else. If Cullen hadn't been looking straight at her, he'd have missed it, along with a small, fleeting, smile. "Thank you. You could tell him Polo for me if you get a chance." She rose and smiled at him, intentionally, the release of some tension in her expression this time loud and clear. He was stunned at the way the smile transformed her whole face. She was gorgeous to begin with, but that smile-- made it impossible to look away.

"You're welcome," he stuttered, then stood as she said "Have a good day," and exited the room. What was it about an Italian explorer that made her look like that? If she smiled like that around Booth, he wondered how the man got any work done at all. Thank God Cullen was happily married.

- - - -

"I'm going in," Booth said into the payphone reciever as he stood on the front porch of the tiny general store that stood in as town center in the small hamlet ten miles from where the rival survivalist group to McFadden's holed up. "Contacts got me an intro into the rival group, they said I could train with them. "I'll try this time next week, see if I can get in on the supply run."

Cullen's voice came from the end of the line. It was less than a week since he'd talked to his agent, but as always, Booth worked fast. "Well, good luck, Booth. And Booth, she said Polo."

She said Polo. He loved Italian explorers. And Russ, for the use of the expression. Booth tried and thought that he failed to wipe the idiot grin from his face. What to say in response? He rooted around in his memory. "Thanks. If you see her, tell her I said... Nostrovya."

"The Russian drinking toast?"

"Correct, sir." Booth hoped she'd remember. He'd said it the night in his office she'd asked if he was going to betray her, and he'd said, simply,

"No." He hoped it would stand in. He couldn't exactly ask his boss to tell his partner he loved her.

"Nostrovya it is," Cullen replied. "Good luck." He hung his head, then hung up. Definitely cryptography.

He called the doctor before he could forget, and Ms. Montenegro answered her office phone. "Oh, sure, sir, I'll get her."

The doctor sounded slightly breathless when she answered the phone. "Hello? Deputy Director Cullen?"

"Hello, Dr. Brennan. Just wanted to let you know I spoke with your partner, and everything's fine. He said to tell you 'Nostrovya.'"

Brennan sagged in relief. It was Booth Cullen had talked to. He'd promised he wouldn't betray her, and was accepting her promise that he hadn't. "Thank you, sir."

"Anything for the next time I talk to him?" Cullen was starting to feel like he was in sixth grade, but there was something going on here he was only starting to guess at, though lord knew there were rumors enough about the two.

"Just... the center will hold."

- - - -

He was tired, but he was close. Maybe two more weeks and he'd have him. These crazy survivalists made him miss Hodgins, whose crackpot theories now seemed rational to the extreme. The group's leaders had not only accepted him, but in the five weeks since he'd infiltrated the group, they'd quickly entrusted him with significant responsibilities once they saw Booth's tracking and shooting skills. They took his claim that he was an AWOL soldier pissed off at the government's betrayals of its troops at face value, and encouraged his occasional teeth-gritted rants about military authority. Soon enough, he was the one setting perimeters, and helping the group's leaders finish planning a raid on McFadden's group. Booth snorted internally at the offered reason. "Ideological purity," since McFadden's group only wanted to blow up law enforcement and political offices, not the Oklahoma-city type bombings "his" group was planning. It was all bullshit. McFadden's group was better armed, and the leaders of his group thought it would be easier to capture their arsenal rather than keep stealing weapons piecemeal from area gun shops and homes. Though Booth's orders were to just get in, elimnate McFadden, and get out, the planned raid was his best option, the chaos of it giving him time to hightail it out of there. He'd probably have to rough it cross country a bit, but that didn't bother him. It was listening to their rantings all day that was wearing him down. Elementary schools, flouridated water, vitamin-enriched milk, satellite TV. Everything was an attempt at goverment mind control. Though he cringed as he thought it, the phrase "Kill them all and let God sort them out," had some application here. Maybe they'd manage to all annhilate themselves during the raid. He couldn't feel guilty about that.

His weekly five minute check ins with Cullen from the payphone in town, when he went on the supply runs, were his link with reality. He'd practically cried at Bones' message that the center would hold, and since then, it was the bright spot of his week as he hoped that Cullen had some message to pass on from her. So far, he always had, and Booth memorized every one of them. "Parker got an A plus in spelling," and "Eventually," and "Parker really likes Mac and Cheese." He'd never thought Bones would spend time with his son without Booth around, but she knew all too well what it meant to be missing a parent. He wondered if the squints were helping her out with his kid, and how they were doing. He missed his little unorthodox family. He'd racked his brain for more things to say to Brennan that weren't too obvious, dredging up silly jokes that they'd told, including one day when Booth had been particularly tired, "Jesus is still not a zombie." Her response through Cullen was a "Fine, but Peru is still not in Africa."

He couldn't wait until she stole his french fries again, or said his least favorite phrase in the world, "anthropologically speaking." He missed her like oxygen. Or sunlight. Or water.


	4. Chapter 4

Brennan missed Booth intensely, though this time, at least, she had a note, a promise that he'd return, and a few messages that could only have come from him. She had something to look forward to, though she spent everyday worrying and ruing the fact that half her attention was now focused on whether he was hurt, what he was doing, what he was thinking. She cared less about her internal monologue turning into that of a swooning romance novel heroine, though. She just worried about bringing the necessary focus to her work. The only time she really seemed to focus was when she was entertaining Parker-- she'd tentatively called Rebecca to suggest she'd be willing to take Parker on Booth's regular weekends, so Rebecca and Brent could have some time to themselves, and surprisingly, Rebecca accepted. Since then, Brennan had spent Sundays with Parker, going to the park, helping with homework, and feeding a "like father, like son" appetite.

She nearly cried the first time Angela came into her office, tucking her thumbs in her waistband, and boomed out, "Come on Bones, let's go! Those french fries won't eat themselves!" Instead she half-laughed and half-sobbed when Angela followed the order with a waggle of her eyebrows. After that, Brennan could hardly say no. Unlike when Booth "died," this time she accepted the teams' solicitous inquiries, and tried to be gracious as much as she could. Angela and Jack nagged her to eat and made her leave the lab at semi-decent hours, and started showing up for the trips she'd take with Parker on Sundays to the park.

The first two weeks after Booth left were quiet, and Brennan caught up on limbo and museum verification cases, as well as caught up on paperwork. She remained tired since the close of the most recent case, but attributed it to the combined stress of the case and Booth's sudden departure. At the end of the second week, she received a call from the Hoover.

"Dr. Brennan, it's Sam Cullen." Her heart stopped a moment, wondering at the purpose for the call. "We could use your assistance on a case, and I'd like to bring Agent Turner over to make introductions before you two head out. I've got Agent Geier watching the remains." Brennan nodded to herself. Geier might not like her, but he was used to working with her, and would anticipate how the remains should be treated until she arrived.

"I'll let Dr. Saroyan know and ready my kit."

"See you shortly."

When Cullen and Turner arrived, she was somewhat surprised to see that the man was closer to Cullen's age than Booth's. But he seemed fit, was polite, and on the way to the scene, inquired respectfully of Brennan's usual protocols while explaining his own m.o. at the scene. The recovery itself was straightforward, the identification almost as quick. Once ID was established, there was already a suspect, and as soon as Brennan identified the mechanism of injury, Turner was able to make an arrest. He even got a confession, based on the manner of attack Dr. Brennan described to him. Turner was impressed, and despite the woman's startling directness and efficiency, he now believed she'd be an asset in more police-related field work-- though he hadn't quite believed it before, despite the stories circulating about her and Booth.

There was another case, right away, and Brennan came out in the field with him, finding not only the secreted-away murder weapon, but helping him find the still-captive next victim of the killer they'd been chasing. That she'd helped capture the killer with a perfect snap-kick only increased his respect. The case was closed in just a week, and Turner was exhausted by the woman's drive to complete paperwork as soon as the case ended. When he truthfully pled his daughter's dance recital, however, her expression immediately softened, and she apologized profusely. The next morning, he found the paperwork on his desk, fully complete and correct except for where he needed to sign. No wonder she and Booth had the highest close rate, if she worked this fast all the time.

Booth was relieved to hear she was working with Turner, even though he was a bit of an old warhorse-- but Booth knew Turner had three girls, and would be almost as protective of Bones as Booth would. He still worried, though. Cullen didn't tell Booth that Brennan continued to look tired, though she acted as agiley and effectively as ever. She was working at full capacity, and he was worried about invading her privacy, even with Booth. He still wasn't sure what the deal was between them. He assumed they were best friends, he'd gathered that much from Dr. Sweets, but if the two were involved beyond that, it was a well-kept secret. Cullen himself had been partnered with someone for 15 years, and he didn't think it so odd that the two were close, though he agreed there was always the risk of rumor with a mixed-gender partnership. But Brennan was professional, and so was Booth. He'd keep passing on their impenetrable messages, in between the mundane exchanges about Booth's son. His heart warmed toward Brennan when he realized that she was looking after Booth's boy, and then even more when he actually saw her attempting to play catch with the child in the park. That particulates doctor ended up taking over, but he could see the affection between the boy and his father's partner as well.

Angela also noticed Bren's continuing tiredness, but she seemed to perk up after seeing Parker and after eating, so she and Jack just conspired to drop by every Sunday and to drag Bren out for every meal. Bren rolled her eyes at them, but put up with it, to her squints' relief. Something really had changed between her and Booth, Hodgins decided, if she was being this agreeable to normal overtures of friendship.

The sixth week after Booth left, a new case came in, one the papers all dubbed 'The Doctor of Death.' The victims were all expertly vivisected, left to bleed to death. There was no trace evidence, and the victims appeared in multiple locations, having been sterilized after being brought to their final location, and before they were killed. The team, with Turner, worked around the clock, Turner and Brennan taking turns questioning witnesses and other suspects but getting nowhere. Sweets, too, was baffled, other than to say that the killer was meticulous, and a psychopath.

On the seventh week to the day since Booth left, and on her third review of the remains, Brennan had a breakthrough. Turner had been sitting in her office, for once staying late, reviewing witness documents, when she buzzed in from the platform, tossed conference materials on the floor willy-nilly, then slipped a DVD into her computer.

"I attended an orthopedic surgery conference three months ago. The starter incision on the victims seems familiar," she offered, before starting intently at the computer, her nostrils flaring with impatience as she waited for the right screen to pop up. She'd pulled up the victims' incisions in a split-screen. "That's it," she said, her lips pursing, as Turner came around to look at the images. Now that she pointed it out, he could see it, though how she'd seen it in the first place, he'd be damned if he knew. Booth said she was the best, and he was right.

"Let's go," he said, calling the Hoover for backup as they sped to the man's apartment. He kept silent when the doctor drew her own weapon. He trusted her by now, and decided they could probably enter and subdue the suspect without backup. They rushed the apartment, and after a brief struggle, the two of them wrestled the suspect to the floor and cuffed him. When the backup arrived, Brennan preceded them in exiting, as Turner and another agent frog-marched the suspect down the stairs.

Without warning, the suspect pulled a deadweight maneuver, dropping and rolling down the stairs, and knocking Brennan to the side in the process. He immediately stood, only for Brennan to side kick him from where she'd landed from the fall. He half fell as she rose to her feet, and head-butted her in the abdomen before she knocked him out with her famous right hook. She dusted herself off, smiled up at Turner, and limped her way down the rest of the stairs. That landing knocked the wind from her, that was sure. She was going to hurt something seriously tomorrow.

Turner resisted the urge to fuss over the doctor as she sat on the tailgate of his truck, directing Agent Geier and the rest of the evidence team in what to look for. She had a slightly pained grimace on her face, but seemed as animated and serious as ever. When the team dispersed, Turner ventured a comment.

"That was a hell of a tumble, and a hell of a punch. Are you sure you're alright?"

Brennan grimaced, saying, "Well, nothing's broken, but I think I might have torn an abdominal muscle or two. I'll get checked out when we're done here." Turner knew this was an enormous concession, so he stood aside, nodding as she stood and began to head back into the building.

If Turner had been in the habit Booth had of always placing his hand at Brennan's back, he would have caught her when she bent over suddenly, groaning and clutching her abdomen. As it was, she collapsed onto her side. A small puddle of blood began to collect under her, then grew larger, even as Turner shouted for the ambulance the backup team always had standing by.


	5. Chapter 5

The raid went perfectly, from Booth's perspective. Seven hours of creeping through underbrush, two more to get everyone into place, then signalling the others just as McFadden walked on his perimeter rounds right into the scope of Booth's rifle. He fired the first shot, and "his" crazies starting firing up the place like nobody's business, as he'd hoped. No discipline. He hopped down, and inspected McFadden, then made to rush the compound, his other crazies following him. Booth zig-zagged, easily dodging the ragged return fire, then dropped a flash grenade behind him as he hit the side of the compound, and ran like hell for the stream. He made it in minutes, hopping down under the embankment as he listened to the continuing sounds of gunfire and men yelling. At least McFadden's group were all men-- no children involved. After confirming there was no immediate pursuit, he struck downstream toward his rendezvous point, keeping under the embankment as he went. By his watch and his compass, it was midnight and he had to cut cross country for two hours from where he'd reached after four slow hours of creeping. He huddled up a branch in a tree to change his socks in his soaking wet boots, and eat some of the food and water he'd stashed in his cargo pockets, rather than more ammo and guns. The group who'd let him in hadn't even noticed. He rested for an hour, then hopped down and took off, loping down hill in an old familiar pace through the heavily wooded forest, checking his compass since it was dark of the moon, like he'd planned.

It was seven weeks and one day since he'd left Bones when he reached the rendezvous point. He'd thought of her and Parker as he ran, reflecting that the last time he'd done this, he didn't have anyone special to him to come home to. He still found it hard to believe things would be okay between them, but she never lied, and it was clear she was serious about it, if she was spending time with his son. His intermittent thoughts were interspersed with prayers that he make it safe home. He was an hour early, as he'd hoped, and there was no sign of ambush. He sprinted across the road at the signal, and slid into the truck, shoving the rifle and other equipment he'd run with into the back.

"Got him," he said shortly, panting, as he buckled up and held on as the driver took off full speed for the highway.

"Yeah, they all got each other," said the agent, introducing himself as Simons. "After you booked it all fell apart, and they all managed to kill each other. Nice work. There's water and food under the seat."

"Got any towels?"

Simons nodded, somewhat surprised. "Wet naps in the glovebox."

Booth used them all, scrubbing off the camo makeup from his neck, face and hands. He couldn't get rid of the inner stain of taking another life, but he could at least try to be clean. Only then did he inhale his food. When they hit the highway, he heaved an inner sigh of relief.

"How long until radio contact?" he asked. These mountains were high.

"About an hour. Go ahead and crash. I'll wake you to call in."

Booth did as suggested. He hadn't slept well for days, and had been on foot for fourteen hours, essentially. Knowing he was on his way home to Bones, he could sleep a bit.

An hour later, the radio crackled to life, and Simons called his name loudly, rather than touch him. These special ops type vets didn't take kindly to being touched as a manner of waking-- as likely to kill you as punch you. Booth jerked awake immediately.

"What?"

"Radio."

"Thanks. 22705 to dispatch."

"Dispatch."

"Confirm to base target eliminated."

"Will convey 22705. Base has a message, call as soon as you are in telephone range." Booth shot Simons a look.

"Twenty minutes or so," Simons offered.

"Roger, 9706."

"Confirm to base 22705 will call shortly. Out."

Booth stared at the radio in his hand, as Simons shot him a glance. Bad news came over the phone. He silently handed his own phone to the agent, and sped up the truck. Booth's eyes flicked between the clock on the dash and the signal bars on the phone for fifteen minutes, until the signal bar flashed to life. He was punching numbers in an instant. It had to be Parker, or Bones, and it was the middle of the night in D.C.

"It's Booth," he said, halfway through Cullen's half-awake greeting.

"Divert to the Air Force Base. There's a C130 waiting for you." Booth's heart froze, even as he barked "Air Force base, now," to Simons.

"What happened?"

"During an apprehension yesterday there was a struggle, and Dr. Brennan was knocked down the stairs by the suspect. There was a struggle, and she subdued him. She seemed fine initially, but approximately ten minutes later she collapsed." Booth crossed himself as he waited for Cullen to continue. "She has some internal organ damage and... a hemmhoragic miscarriage of a seven week fetus."

Seven week fetus. Instantly engraved in his brain.

Cullen continued. "She'd been exhausted since before you left, but apparently didn't know she was pregnant until... after. Ms. Montenegro and Dr. Hodgins are with her. They did some initial surgery to stop the blood loss, Booth, but they had to stop for a while until they could give her some more blood."

"Is she awake?"

"She was, briefly. She spoke with Ms. Montenegro before she went under again."

"Where is she?"

"Medical center. I'll have someone with your truck and some things to meet you when you land."

"Tell the squints I'm on my way. And tell Angela to expect a call from this number."

"Will do. Booth... it was just one of those things. They had two Agents on him. Turner's ready to shoot himself."

Booth replied mechanically, as 'seven week fetus,' and 'hemmhorage' bounced around in his brain, "I'm sure he did what he could." He lied when he said it-- he never would have allowed Bones to precede a suspect out of a building. "I'll call when I land."

"Booth," Cullen started, then paused. The man hadn't betrayed anything one way or the other except determination when he responded to the news. "We'll be praying for her."

"Pray hard. And thanks."

He flipped the phone shut, and looked at Simons. The spedometer was creeping to 95 and he grunted approval before calling Angela.

"Booth, is that you?" She sounded half-frantic.

"I'm on my way, Ange. An hour or two to an airplane, five hours in flight if I'm lucky. What's going on?"

Angela explained that she'd been allowed to make decisions in Booth's absence as Brennan's secondary proxy, and detailed her injuries, and the next surgery planned. Booth's expression got grimmer as he listened, and Simons pushed the accelerator a little bit harder. Whatever it was, it was bad. Booth's final words were, "Tell her I love her whether she wakes up or not."

He hung up the phone and stared out the windshield. Of course, Angela knew the whole story, or the important parts, and she'd assured him that only she and Bren knew he was the father. She'd also assured him, again, that Bren had been looking forward to his return, and that she'd said "Tell Booth to get back here," before she passed out again. He started to pray as he watched the mile markers pass by. Mostly, "Please."


	6. Chapter 6

The C130's loading bay was lowered when Simons pulled onto the tarmac.

"I'm leaving everything but the 9mm," said Booth. "I'll turn it in when I'm back in D.C." It wasn't a request.

"Yes, sir. Good luck."

"Thanks." Booth was out of the truck and running across the tarmac like a bat out of hell. Or into hell, if the conversation Simons half-heard was any indication.

- - - -

The second pilot was feeling grumpy about the fact that they'd sat there four hours for some FBI agent who needed a hop back to D.C.-- that is, until the guy looking like he'd walked straight out of Apocalypse Now jogged up the ramp, said "I'm Booth, now let's go," and strapped himself into the jump seat nearest the flight deck like he knew cargo planes like the back of his hand. She was too astonished to do anything but nod and power up the ramp. Nobody'd said anything about who he was or why he needed a ride other than to give them his name, but now she wondered. They were talking in HQ about survivalist bustup up in the hills the other night, and this guy? Well, she wouldn't speculate aloud, that's all.

After they cleared the runway and achieved cruising altitude, she got up to check on him. He'd undone the harness as soon as the engines hummed that steady vibration he knew from long practice meant 28,000 feet, and stretched out across all three jump seats. Not that he'd sleep at all, but he could at least give his legs of a rest. He cracked an eye as the first pilot came out of the flight deck, and half sat up to look at her. Dinnertime, if he had any guess. "Got any chili mac? None of that Thai Chicken. No way that shit tastes like the real thing."

She jumped. Of course the guy was ex-military. "Let me look." She went over to the MRE cabinet, and started flipping through. "Thai Chicken, Thai Chicken, Jamabalaya, Ham Slice, Chick Tetrazzini. No, wait, there's one Chili Mac."

"Give me the Tetrazzini and the Chili Mac, then." She kind of wanted the Tetrazzini, but this guy screamed sergeant or higher, and she wouldn't dare contradict him. But since he was playing the mystery man, she indulged herself one way, and tossed the meal bags over her shoulder, interested to see if he'd catch them. She was the base softball pitching champ.

He snorted behind her, and when she turned around to look at him, he gave her a look. "I'm old, kid, not dead," he said, as he tore open the pouches and expertly started sorting through the contents, dumping them in yes and no piles as he started the heater elements for both entrees. "Where's the beverage powder and cups?" he asked, shooting her a glare.

"Bev bags came in two years ago," she said, opening another drawer. "Gatorade, juice, or water?"

"Gatorade." She tossed them again, and again, they didn't drop to the floor. When she pulled out her mess for her and first pilot, she stood and turned back. He was shaking tabasco into his Chili Mac like there was no tomorrow, and giving her a sardonic look as he dug into the first entree bag. He raised an eyebrow, and kept eating. He was an old trooper of some kind. He ate like he didn't know where his next meal was coming from.

Booth plowed his way through the two MREs, the gatorades, the chocolate, and the nasty sides-- he needed the calories. But those cheese cracker things hadn't changed in 10 years, and he wasn't touching them with a ten thousand foot pole. He got up and tossed them in the trash, then used up the rest of the wet wipes, swiping again at the grease that felt like it was ingrained in him. That done, he laid down again, mulling things over. An hour before landing, the female pilot came out to tell him their ETA, and he spoke again.

"Can you find out who's going to be meeting me?"

"I'll radio."

"Thanks."

Twenty minutes later, she craned her head around. "Charlie and Geier sound right to you?"

He nodded, then sat up and strapped himself in again. "Sounds like home." She watched him lean his head back on the wall-- like he was gathering himself for something hard. Or praying. Or both. She wondered what could be so bad that this guy was worried.

- - - - -

His desk jockey and tech agent were parked at the edge of the runway, with Charlie's car and Booth's truck, when the plane landed. The mood had been somber since yesterday afternoon, and Geier had refused to add fuel to the fire when one of the office gossips wanted to know what had happened. "Quit asking, or I'll report you to Cullen," was his only response. Charlie'd nodded, and told her to fuck off for good measure. Booth was not going to be happy. Neither man was particularly sure whether to credit the rumor mill, but even if none of it was true, Booth would still be this concerned for his partner.

Neither were particularly surprised when the plane halted in front of them, and a black shape swung down 6 feet onto the tarmac from the still lowering cargo bay door. He jogged over to them, face solemn.

"Report?" he said, quietly.

Charlie went first. "Case file, clothing, weapon, badge and effects in the truck. The ex was advised you were back but to contact the Bureau unless it was an emergency."

"Good. Thanks. Geier?"

The tech agent swallowed, and Charlie swallowed in sympathy. His part had been easy, compared. "I didn't see the fight. Word was he deadweighted, took her down ten steps. She side kicked him, he head butted her, she cold cocked him. She seemed okay when we met outside and she briefed me on what to look for. I'd already headed back in when she went down, but I came back out at the ruckus. Tac had an ambu on standby, so there wasn't any time wasted. Turner went with her. I called Ms. Montenegro."

Booth nodded, and repeated himself. "Good, thanks." He paused, and then asked. "How much blood?"

Geier swallowed, then answered. "Two pints, maybe more." Booth's eyes darkened, but his expression didn't otherwise change.

"Keys?" Charlie handed them over, wordlessly. "Thanks, both of you," Booth said, already half in the truck as he slapped the lights on and turned on the engine. His two agents stepped back as he peeled rubber.

- - - - -

Angela's cell phone buzzed six hours and thirty two minutes since she last spoke with Booth. Hodgins was helping her count.

"Booth," she half-sobbed.

"Where is she?"

"Still in surgery. We're in the first floor waiting room."

"Be there shortly." She closed her phone, exhaling shakily. He was back. They'd have help figuring the rest of this out. Hodgins looped his arm around her again, and said, "Shh, baby, Booth'll know what to do."

- - - -

Booth strode into the waiting room like he owned it. No matter he was filthy and stinking, covered in two weeks' beard and black camo. Jack recognized him first. He was no alpha male, but he did what he could by "his" ladies, and Dr. B. was more right than he'd ever admit to Angela. Men smelled each other out, somehow, and Hodgins knew Booth immediately. "Hey man," he said, up and across the room before Angela registered who the scary mountain man really was.

"How much longer?" asked Booth, returning the bug man's arm clasp.

"Less than an hour?"

They were interrupted by Angela's cried out "Booth!" as she literally threw herself into his arms. Hodgins noted Booth didn't budge an inch as he lightly patted the artist's back.

"Hey, Angela," he said lightly. "Better back off. This jacket's a biohazard." Jack eyed it curiously. The tales that jacket would tell about where Booth had been. It really was filthy.

"There's a bathroom with a shower down three rooms on the right," he said. "You could save me the jacket."

Booth rolled his eyes. It was so good to be home. "What about national security do you not get, Hodgins?"

He patted Angela's arm, and re-shouldered his duffel. "Let me go light a fire and get changed, okay? Come bang on the door if you need me."

They both watched as Booth leaned over the counter to the desk nurse, badge firmly in hand, and unabashedly ordered her to get a doctor down to speak with him in the next twenty minutes. As he strode away from the desk, both Jack and Angela exhaled in release. Booth was back, he and Brennan could figure it out now.

- - - - -

He grimaced as he watched the crud and grease accumulate in the drain as he blasted the water, then grimaced again with the fourth pass of the razor over his face. Thank God that whoever packed his bag put in a razor and shaving cream along with the rest of his stuff. Booth didn't know how Hodgins did it. Didn't he itch, all the time? He was tempted to ditch the rags he'd walked in with, but his evidence gut was too strong. He fished a trash can liner out from under the current bag, and bundled the stinking clothes and the piece of shit pistol he'd been using into it, before shoving it into the duffel. The Beatles had it half right. Happiness was not a warm gun, but the hair on the back of your neck settled down when you had a clean, reliable one. He felt almost human with clean clothes, a clean face, his badge and his own gun. He'd be human once he saw Bones again.

"Please," he thought, one more time, before heading back out into the world. To find his center again.

- - - - -

Ange smiled at the transformed Booth when he returned, as Hodgins stood to make a cafeteria run. "Coffee?"

Booth shook his head. He was wired enough, he'd probably puke if he added caffeine to the adrenaline mix. "Gatorade, and something greasy," he said. It was lunchtime, maybe there'd be french fries.

"Hungry man special it is," the bug man replied.

"Now we wait," said Booth as he sat next to Angela, and lightly patted her shoulder. Angela immediately leaned into him, despite the fact that he looked as grave as he ever had, even more than when the Gravedigger had Brennan and Jack. Poor Booth, she thought. Bren usually helped with the being in charge thing.

She spoke quietly, head still on his shoulder, as she patted his knee. "She looked better before she went in, she was mostly asleep, but I told her."

"Thanks, Ange." He squeezed her hand lightly. It was almost as tiny as Bones'. "Does Hodgins know?"

She shook her head. "What? The start, or the source of this current mess? No. It's your business, not ours. You two decide how you want to handle it. Bren just told me that first day in case... so you'd know ... things were okay."

He squeezed her hand, but said nothing. Jack wasn't jealous when he came back to see Angie camped out on Booth's shoulder. The G-Man cracked an eye at him, then patted her knee before reaching forward to take the burger and fries Hodgins did manage to rustle up for him. He inhaled it as the two watched in amazement, Hodgins wondering again where the hell the G-man had been. Booth had just pitched the trash when the doctor came down, and immediately stood in front of him.

"Agent Booth?"

He nodded. "How did it go?"

"We repaired the abdominal wall tears and the uterine tear, but the blood loss affected one ovary and fallopian tube, and we had to excise them. She's stable, and didn't lose any more blood during the surgery. She'll be in her room in an hour and a half."

Booth looked at him implacably. "That's not soon enough. I'm going with you up to recovery."

The doctor started to protest. "Proxies don't normally..."

Booth's gaze was black as night, his voice deceptively quiet, as he said, "Well, fathers do."

The doctor swallowed, then nodded. Even if he wasn't already right, this man would brook no contradiction. "Follow me."

Booth turned and regarded his squints. "I'll come back down when they move her."

When he'd left the room, Hodgins placed his arm around Angela, hugging her to him. "How long were they..."

"Just that night was the first time," she replied. Jack wasn't mad that Angie'd kept it to herself. He just felt horrible for Dr. B. and the G-Man.

"Christ. It's not fair."

"No, it's not," Ange sighed in response. Both relaxed a bit, nonetheless. They two of them would figure things out now that Booth was back-- it was what the two of them did. Dealt with things.

- - - - -

She was at the end of the recovery ward, still sleeping, when the terrified doctor pointed her out. His heart clenched-- she looked smaller and frailer than he'd ever seen her, and her arms had ugly bruises he assumed were from the fall. Booth hoped they'd put the suspect someplace Booth wouldn't find him.

He brushed his lips across hers lightly, whispering, "Bones, love, wake up." He moved the side-rail out of the way so he could sit on the bed with her. She slept still, so he took her hand and sat, drinking in the sight of her.

He'd missed her so much-- it was like a toothache, or one of those amputation phantom limbs some of his buddies complained about. Seeing her again was literally balm for his soul, if he was going to be poetic about it, but at the same time, his heart twisted again. She looked literally drained, her fair skin washed out by the bright white of the sheets, her color bleached under the fluorescents. Her hand was cool, unlike its normal warmth, and her usual vibrancy missing.

He couldn't believe what a fool he was. First for losing control, next for not using protection, and now for putting her through this. She always said she didn't want children, and while he believed her, not wanting and not being able to have were two different things. The doctor said it wasn't impossible-- but it would be harder. He knew she used her own protection-- he'd been horrified to walk in on Bones, Cam, and Angela loudly debating their favorite contraceptives one day in the lounge. But Rebecca got pregnant when she was on birth control and they'd skipped a condom that once. What the hell was wrong with him? And how could Bones not be anything but furious with him? If they made it though this, and Bones didn't leave him, he'd get snipped, he decided. He wanted more kids, but he wanted Bones more.

Her hand twitched in his, and his attention snapped fully back to her. "Bones," he called again, softly, then bent forward to kiss her forehead. Her eyes fluttered open this time, and she felt something inside her fill up a little again at the feel of his hand surrounding hers.

"Booth," she said, clearing her throat as she looked at his sad, serious face. "I'm so sorry..." A few tears sprang to her eyes. This was overwhelming to her. She couldn't imagine how Booth felt.

Tears sprang to his own eyes as he looked back at her. "Temperance," he said, brushing his thumb on her cheek, "there's nothing to be sorry about."

"What a homecoming," she murmured, blinking back tears and then squeezing her eyes shut. He watched as guilt spilled across her face, only confirmed when she said, eyes still closed, "I should have noticed." There'd been no hint of reproach in his eyes, but it was true. If she'd been paying attention, she would have noticed the signs her body was giving her. Her eyes welled and started to leak.

"Oh, Bones," he sighed, and carefully, carefully, pulled her up and against him. "Don't think like that, please?" He was scared by how light and small she seemed as he held her, her usual perfume and natural scent faint-- his earlier thought, that she seemed drained, came back to him. He folded his arms around her more closely, until he could tuck her head under his chin, and cradle her head to him as he stroked her back. "Bones, I love you no matter what, and I'm ... sorry this happened, but sometimes, things just happen. You didn't do anything wrong."

A small choking sob escaped her, despite herself. She'd never wanted children, it was true, and she still wasn't sure, but if she'd been given the choice of knowing about it, knowing she and Booth had made something together, well-- there wasn't any choice now. Lost opportunities, she thought, as her throat tightened and she sobbed again. The harsher motion forced her to clutch at herself, Booth's large, warm hand immediately pressing on hers and she pressed down on the incisions the doctors had made. "Please, Bones, don't cry, you'll hurt yourself," he said, stroking her hair with one hand. "We'll figure it out, Temperance, we always do."

His warmth and his hand on her back, moving in circles as he murmured assurances gradually seeped into her. She sat and allowed herself to be enfolded by him, listening to his heart beat and his lungs fill, living proof that he'd come back like he said he would. He felt her relax slightly into him, and continued to whisper assurances. "My sweetheart, I love you, I missed you so much," he said, and her chest heaved against his as she managed a "me too," before her throat closed again. She had expected to have to deal with Booth's lingering doubts and insecurities, not that she would be the one in need of help when he returned. A lump forced its way into another sob, and his hand pressed into her again as he tipped her face up. Softly, but sternly, he said, "No more crying now. We can tear our hair out later, when your stitches are out, but you're really going to hurt yourself if you don't stop. Okay?"

Another small sob escaped her, and she gritted her teeth, trying to swallow it. He was right-- every sob was like a stab through her abdomen. Booth watched as his poor Bones concentrated so hard on trying to do as he asked. Normally he would encourage her to cry, but it really was dangerous, now. He placed an encouraging kiss on her forehead, her clenched-shut eyelids, her nose, her emotion-compressed lips, then tucked her against him again.

"Just sit here and be quiet with me, okay?" She nodded, silently, and with a last effort, banished her grief and confusion for the moment. She just concentrated on breathing him in, as his warm hands and arms continued to hold her to him. He'd come back, like he said he would. The rest could wait.


	7. Chapter 7

Brennan was relieved, more than she cared to admit aloud, that her blood family stated away from the hospital. The whole thing was physically painful, not to mention emotionally, without her unreliable family offering sympathy for such an unexpected series of happenings. She wouldn't call them mistakes-- not even the part about becoming pregnant. You took precautions, but sometimes, they didn't work. Things happened, like Booth said. She joked bitterly to herself that just as she was above average in everything else, she beat the 99 percent effective statistic on her birth control. She was not looking forward in many ways to getting back to work. She'd long been aware that she and her partner were rumored to be involved, despite their own denials of it. These new developments were sure to set the rumor mills going again. She also knew she was going to be in for awkward interactions with people attempting sympathy, as well as mere curiosity-seekers. Where she was confused about how to feel about the miscarriage at all, the upcoming interactions were not ones she looked forward to, at all.

She hadn't missed the fact that she was feeling calmer, despite her continuing sadness over the entire situation, than she ought to be, given what she knew about female reproductive hormones. She asked Hodgins to bring her a PDR, so she could look up all the pills she was given. She'd suspected as much when she counted them all out on the bedside table. That little white pill she'd been taking three times a day was a sedative. She said nothing about it while Hodgins and Angela were visiting. Booth already knew he was in trouble. He'd tensed where he was sitting behind her on the bed as soon as she flipped to the appropriate page. Once their squints left, however, Brennan turned to Booth, her face serious.

"Sit," she said, pointing to the area of the bed in front of her, where she could see him. She held the pill up between her fingers. "This was not in the original doctor's orders. Nor was it in the list he described to me."

Booth didn't cringe, precisely, but he prepared himself to dig in for a fight. Bones cocked her eyebrow at him, her face expressing serious annoyance. "Did it ever occur to you that I might have agreed, if you'd said 'Temperance, it might be a good idea for a few days to have a mild medication to counteract the effect that your fluctuating hormone levels are having on you, by precipitating uncharacteristing emotional reactions in you right now?"

Booth felt his stomach flop as she finished her question. Damnit. He'd underestimated Bones again. "No, I didn't."

"Did you think I would fight you about it?"

"I worried you might," he admitted.

"Could you have found a way to get the doctors to convince me if I'd said no?"

"I could have, I guess," he said, looking more and more to Brennan like a hurt puppy. She hated this, too, but he needed to understand the next part. She sighed.

"Look-- Booth. I know you're used to making decisions for other people all the time-- Parker, your desk jockeys, the people in your Ranger squad, our squints. You're good at it, it's part of who you are. And if I'm not able to do it myself, I trust you to do it for me. But this," she said, holding the pill up again, "this tells me that either you don't think I'm capable of making reasonable decisions, or that you let your overprotective nature kick in and you didn't think about it at all."

He'd expected her to holler at him, not skewer him with logic. "Bones, I'm sorry. I guess I was just reacting. You know I think you can make up your mind for yourself. I... just ... you need to get better." That last bit sounded more like a plea than a statement to Brennan, and it made her realize he needed her to get better as much for himself as for her. She knew he'd been deeply afraid of what would happen to them when he left on that operation, and what had happened before his return couldn't have helped. She shouldn't have expected him not to overreact a bit, as she thought back to how physically painful it had been to her when she thought he was dead. She relented a little, realizing he was going through the same thing she had just a few months ago. He was probably also worried about her reaction to becoming pregnant in the first place-- she'd always made her thoughts on the matter of childbearing clear, and he must be worried that she would be furious when she recovered. She wasn't, though. Things happened, and she wasn't going to count the initial start of things as anything worth getting angry over. It was her own failures, after, that concerned her.

"Look," she said, sighing. "I'll make you a promise. If you think I'm disagreeing with you about something really important, and you don't think I'm being reasonable, then tell me that, in so many words. I promise, I'll think more about it. But any decisions I make have got to be my own, Seeley. Your opinion matters, more than anyone else's, but if you keep running over me because you're scared I might disagree, then this isn't going to work. It's got to be like it has been-- either we come to an agreement, or agree to disagree. None of this going around behind my back."

"You're right, and I'm sorry," he said, inexplicably upset that she'd been so nice, and reasonable about it. He was used to Bones being less sensitive to his feelings. He was also disconcerted by how quickly she'd picked out how much of his own sense of well-being depended on her. Sweets would have a field day if he was here.

"Anticlimactic, hmm?" she asked, then deliberately swallowed the pill. "Don't worry, I'll be more up to throwing things at you next week, okay?"

Booth laughed weakly at the way she'd phrased it, but tried to be game. "Good. It keeps my reflexes sharp. You stop throwing things, it could be bad for my response time."

She snorted lightly, then reached forward to take his hand even as she cracked, "That's my mission in life, to keep you on your toes."

"I thought it was to annoy me no end," he said, as he shifted back to sit behind her and wrap his arms around her again.

With a fair touch of her more usual feistiness, Brennan snorted. "No, that's my passion, not my mission."

- - - - - -

The fourth day she was in the hospital, the doctors came around early to check the incisions and do one last series of lab tests. To Brennan's disgust, they'd put her on a high-iron diet to combat the underlying anemia. Booth let her bitch about her having to eat meat and fish without comment-- she still ate the food, knowing even as she swallowed it, that had she been less anemic, she and Booth might be facing a different set of decisions. She'd been managing all the things the doctors and nurses called "self care," and managing her mandated walks around the floor, though Booth could see how wobbly and uncomfortable she got even after a little bit of exertion. The doctors decided to send her home, regardless, cautioning her about bending or carrying anything heavier than five pounds. Brennan managed to forbear all the cautions, though inside she despaired slightly. She was a physically independent person, most of thie time. It was a point not of pride, but necessity, for most of her life. Even as she trusted Booth, she couldn't get over the distaste of being so weak. There were more than the usual cautions about sitting and standing and sexual intercourse-- the uterine and abdominal repairs were not insignificant, though she could tell that herself, given how quickly she tired and became emotionally volatile.

The insistence that she stay with someone for the next two weeks was less necessary-- there wasn't much question that she would be staying with Booth. They made plans to discharge her the next day, and Brennan called Angela to bring her some clothes from her apartment. The next morning, after the nurses brought her the prescriptions and other standard discharge paperwork, she and Booth were left alone so she could get changed and leave. Booth was standing off to the side, studiously looking the other way as she got dressed, when he heard Bones say acerbically, "Were you not planning on seeing me naked again?"

He was bright red when he turned to look at her, as she matter of factly finished tying the wrap dress Angela had brought ('no bending at all, Sweetie,') and slipped on the flats her friend had also brought. "I... uh..." he tried, lost for a response. Frankly, he was terrified at the thought of it, though he knew full well that 'naked Bones' did not automatically mean 'Bones in the hospital.' He was having a hard time convincing himself of that, though.

"Booth," she said, walking stiffly over to him before embracing him. "We're going to have to rip off a lot of bandaids-- the sooner we get it over with, the sooner the wounds will get the air they need."

"Very metaphoric, Bones," he mumbled into her hair.

She poked him lightly in the back. "I am a bestselling author."

"Modest, too. Sorry, Bones."

She tipped her face up to look at him. "Don't apologize, just stop freaking out. Or tell me you're freaking out, rather than going to hide in the corner. That's my job in this relationship," she finished, a bittersweet smile on her face.

Booth's own laugh was bitter, but it was still a laugh. "Bones, it's my job to be the emotionally astute one in this relationship. You keep this up and I'll only be good for opening jars and bringing you coffee."

She gave him another twisted grin. "I'm probably the first person to ever grow a feminine emotional side after losing half her physical one. I'm such an overachiever." Booth's heart flopped a little. She hadn't actually referred to the surgical outcome of things out loud, he realized. That she'd expressed it so bitterly bothered him, but at least she was talking about it.

"Well, overachieve at getting better quickly, hmm," he said, holding her more closely and stroking the hair on the back of her head. "You're going to get sick of me underfoot all the time pretty quick."

She didn't laugh at his attempted joke, however. Instead, she looked up and said seriously, "I very much doubt that."

"Oh, Bones," he sighed. "I couldn't get sick of you either." They stood there until the orderly came along with the wheelchair, and Brennan grumpily allowed him to settle her into it, Booth hovering, and not missing the grimace she made as she sat. Brennan made a shooing motion when they reached the ground floor and Booth had to go get the truck, even as she hated seeing him disappear from sight. She'd have to watch it, she realized. As much as she hated psychology, she didn't want Sweets or someone else claiming they'd become co-dependent or something. They still had to function independently, even if they were no longer just partners. Ironic, that they'd managed it while he was away, but now she felt her breath constrict when he was out of the room-- and he had her present weakness as an ever-present reminder of her mere humanity, too. It was the first time she'd ever been really hurt around him, she realized-- not something he could solve by shooting someone. This wasn't going to be a matter of a week's fading bruises.

Booth parked and opened her door as the orderly pushed the chair over, but he gave the orderly a glare when he went to help Brennan out of the chair. "There's my alpha-male," she thought, as he waited for her to push herself up and her elbows start to wobble before he snaked his arm around her waist and had her both out of the chair and into the truck without further effort on her part. She wondered how much practice he'd had getting a pregant Rebecca around. Certainly, he seemed to be aware of where she was having physical issues. 'Issues,' she thought. She was using euphemisms in her own head now.

Rebecca-- that was another thought. She, at least, had managed to know she was pregnant, and take care of herself enough to make decisions about what she would do. It didn't matter that Brennan still had no idea what she-- what they-- would have done if she'd known. The fact still was that she'd failed to pay attention, to take care of herself, like Booth and Angela were always warning her. She knew that pregnancy would have drastically changed the way she related to her own body, as well as to the rest of the world-- changes she wasn't sure she would have been prepared to make. The fact that those changes were now moot didn't change the fact that she couldn't be happy about avoiding them.

"You're pretty quiet, there, Bones," came Booth's voice as she stared out the window, thinking.

"Just thinking," she replied. She didn't know if she wanted him to ask about what, but he did.

"What are you thinking about?" He had his suspicions, and she was right about ripping off bandaids.

She looked at him gravely, thought a moment longer, then responded. "Rebecca, paying attention, changing the way I think about things, making accomodations for the unexpected, being flexible."

"Nothing serious, then," he said, taking her hand in the one he wasn't steeing with.

"Right," she replied, giving him another bittersweet smile. "Just fluff and kittens and rainbows."

"Come to any decisions?" he asked, his eyes on the road but his thumb rubbing her palm.

"Just that I have more thinking to do," she replied, giving his hand a squeeze. "I don't quite have the words for it yet."

"Well, you'll find them, sooner or later," he said, confident that it was the truth. He'd been avoiding doing much thinking about it all himself, focusing instead on practical things like whether Bones needed more painkillers or food, or how her color was from hour to hour. He'd pushed the larger thoughts to the back of his head-- but now that she needed to start making do more on her own, he was going to have fewer practical things to be helpful with and distracted by. This was not going to be easy.


	8. Chapter 8

As they reached his house, some savior practical thoughts arose. He hadn't been home, at all, since he got back, and couldn't remember what state he'd left it in when he left. He usually kept it pretty clean-- not too many dished piled up when you lived on takeout, like they had that week. Jack had stopped off to bring him some more clothes, and hadn't said anything about it being a pigsty, so he hoped it would do. Bones looked sacked out anyway-- he was sure Parker's room was clean, so he could set her up in there to nap while he cleaned, at least.

"Well, here we are," he said, killing the engine and coming around to her side to open the door. She'd already grabbed hold of the handle and slid halfway out when she twisted the wrong way and hissed. Again, he had his arm around her waist in a minute, and he set her on her feet again. He ducked his head as he reached into the back for her bags, not meeting her eyes. She hated this as much as he did-- more.

He did that all the time, she realized now. Did things for her and then pretended he hadn't-- and she'd played along, or ignored it, because she was, or had been, too proud to acknowledge any perception of physical or emotional dependence. Well-- she hadn't much choice now. She was well and truly cut up physically. It would be weeks before she could even lift her own work kit, much less do all the usual house, lab, and field bending, stooping, and carrying. She mourned for any remains that would be found before she was fit again. Perhaps she could go and at least stand and supervise their recovery-- she could examine them while using a stool at the lab. She ruefully realized that were she still pregnant, it would be months before she was unfit to do the very things she now couldn't. Her not taking care of herself had a double fallout, then-- their victims, and their... baby. There, she'd called it a baby, not a fetus. Her hubris about her limits had come back to her now, and spilled over to others beyond her. Her self-absorption was unbelievable, she now realized.

Booth watched her as she continued to brood while they made their way up the walk and stairs. She gave him a fleeting sad smile as he opened the door, then came up short as he stopped and surveyed his spotlessly clean apartment. He knew he hadn't cleaned the windows recently.

"Even my place isn't this clean," Brennan remarked.

"Mine either," Booth replied. They moved in and he locked up, then moved through the apartment. Laundry done, sheets and blankets in his and Parker's room cleaned and changed, everything polished and dusted. "Must have been Hodgins and Angela," he said, returning to see Bones looking around curiously. She'd never spent much time here, and hell, he hadn't either. He wondered why she'd agreed to come here, suddenly, and wondered if he'd been so obvious about the incredible nausea he felt at the idea of going back to her apartment. He couldn't keep thinking of it as 'the scene of the crime,' though he knew he was being ridiculous. Maybe she'd decided that was bandaid that didn't need ripping off yet-- he sure as hell wasn't going to do it.

He picked up their bags, then set them down again. He wasn't ready to think about sleeping arrangements. At the hospital, he'd managed to have her fall asleep against him most of the time while they were watching TV, so that he had an excuse to hold her all night, but they couldn't very well sleep on the couch. Bones solved the problem, though. "The bathroom's through the bedroom?" He nodded. "Why don't you bring our things back, and I'll change when I'm done in there, alright?"

Good. More practical things to do. He put her bag on top of the bureau where she could reach it as she gave him a small smile before going into the bathroom and closing the door.

"Want some tea or something?"

"That would be good," came her voice. He half debated just waiting outside the door, in case she needed help, but decided she would give him that patient look he was starting to hate. He couldn't help it-- he'd left for seven weeks and now she was a mess. If he hadn't had to go, or had finished up earlier, gotten back sooner... well, he was being stupid. She was safely home, he could go to the kitchen without something happening.

When he opened the fridge, he found it stocked with all the stuff they'd insisted Bones needed to eat more of. That was way beyond what he'd expected-- there were even a lot of Bones' favorite rabbit food things, and some of the "fresh man food," Booth had joked about missing to Hodgins, after living on so much canned food while he was with that group of wackos. "Made me crave broccoli," he'd said, and there it was, along with some fresh steaks. He started some coffee, then opened the cabinets to find that one or the other of them must have bought some of the tea Bones liked-- he only had the basic stuff, not the foofy herbal stuff Bones liked sometimes. He half heard the bathroom door open, and Bones moving around-- she must be doing okay, he decided. He looked at the clock-- it was going to be time for her to have more pills, soon, and then she'd sack out for an hour or two. He could finish doing an inventory then.

"You want mint, chamomile, ginger, lemon verbena, or hibiscus?" he asked, as he filled a saucepan of water and stuck it on the burner.

"You have hibiscus?" She'd been expecting some bagged mass market tea.

"Apparently. The squints went whole hog." Whole hog? she thought. Hmm. Perhaps he meant that they were generous in stocking Booth's apartment. That explained why Angela seemed so pleased with herself yesterday.

"Hibiscus, please." Hodgins and Angela had been good friends, visiting every day for short periods of time, looking them in the eye, talking about mundane work things or general news. Cam and Cullen had come by and looked them in the eye, but it was more awkward with them. She really wasn't looking forward to getting back to work.

Booth was splashing water from a saucepan half onto the counter and half into a mug with a teabag in it when she returned to the kitchen in some pyjama pants and a sweatshirt. "No kettle," he said, as he mopped up the excess water and handed her the mug. She leant back against the counter as she watched the flower petals' red seep into the water.

"Why'd you change?" Booth asked. "That dress looked pretty comfortable."

Brennan had avoided discussing the physical pain and indignities with him. He knew when she was uncomfortable, and made sure to nag her about taking her pain pills, or helped her with things she couldn't manage herself, but she figured he didn't need to know all the gory details. She wasn't one to avoid a direct question, though. "It's painful to wear a bra right now. The hormones make my breasts painfully tender." In fact, they'd been tender before the ... accident, as if missing her period shouldn't have been clue enough. She blew the steam off her tea and took as sip as she looked at him out of the corner of her eye-- he looked both embarrassed and concerned, and angry about something.

Booth watched her walk to the couch and sit gingerly down, then curl her knees up to her chest. "Want a throw or something?" She nodded, and drank some more tea. He snagged the quilt from Parker's bed, and handed it to her.

"Nice firetrucks," she smiled, as she tucked it around herself. He sat next to her, absently rubbing her legs as he worked on the cup of coffee he'd made himself, and wondering if what he was about to ask her was too much bandaid-- for him and for her.

"You... ah... haven't really said how it hurts, other than to say that you're sore," he began, flushing despite himself. "I didn't ask, either. I'm sorry, Bones," he said, his expression contrite. He was angry at himself? Poor Booth, she thought.

"Do you really want to know?" she asked quietly, though she didn't look embarrassed, just sad.

"Well, you're not one to complain, Bones, I know, but I'm just saying... I should have asked you before since I..." he trailed off.

"Could have no idea what it feels like," she finished. He hated this. She was the one who was in physical pain, and he was the one who was uncomfortable.

"Yeah. I mean, if you don't feel like talking about it, that's fine, but I... I should have asked before now."

"Well," she said, her expression unchanged, "if you really want to know, I'll tell you. But really, Booth, it's alright."

He shook his head. He wasn't saying this right. He normally wasn't so inarticulate around her, but she was looking at him in the inscrutable way she had, and for once, he had no clue what she was thinking. He shifted, and gently pulled her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her. He thought better sometimes when he was touching her. "It's not a question of wanting to know, Bones. It's that I ... should. I know I can't really understand, but... it wouldn't have happened without me, so it's not fair for you not to be able to complain about it to me if you want to." There-- that was closer to what he'd wanted to say.

She rested her forehead against the side of his neck, pulling her knees in further to her chest, as she sighed. Her breath was soft and moist against his skin. "Right now? My breasts hurt, I'm sore all over like I have the flu, my back hurts, I have cramps, like my period except worse. Plus the incisions and all of those things. It knocks the wind out of me if I move too quickly. And it hurts to go to the bathroom."

He tightened his arms around her. "I'm sorry, Bones. I wish I could do something." The only thing he could commiserate on was the gut stab feeling.

"You're doing it," she said, leaning a little more into him. Encouraged, he kept holding her, as she fell silent again. He guessed she was done feeling like talking for now. He was thinking about going to get her pills when she spoke again, this time more softly.

"Have you ever had giardia? Or dysentery?"

"Once," he said, recalling that miserable week in Honduras after that assignment went bad.

She drew in a ragged breath. "That first cramp... was like the worst ones I ever had when I had dysentery once, but it got worse." Booth stilled, and squeezed her again. "It's not just your uterus, though it starts there. It spreads, to your back, your chest, you practically have a lump in your throat. It... burns when it's happening, but then you're cold... freezing, when it passes. Each one... hurts more, and... you're colder each time."

He'd started rocking her gently as he listened. He knew how cold he got after being shot, after the initial fire of the bullet passed. That coldness, as all the blood that usually kept you warm left. To have that feeling, over and over? He suppressed a shudder, and kept rocking her gently.

"You wouldn't think that something that physically small would hurt so much," she said, her voice thick as she finally said the thought aloud. "But it hurts that much to lose a fully sized person, just differently. I suppose it makes sense." She exhaled then, clearly done talking for now.

"Temperance," he said, swallowing the lump in his own throat, "I'm sorry... for all of it."

"I'm not," she said, surprising him. He pulled away to look down at her, shocked. "No-- listen," she said. ""I'm sorry you had to leave so quickly, but... things happen. There are things that happened after, that I wish I could change more than anything, but I'm not sorry for the fact of it all beginning."

"But... it wasn't how it should have been," he said, nauseous all over again at how out of control he had been, but she just looked at him, then spoke again.

"When is anything the way it should be? It was what it was, Booth, but it meant at least, if nothing else, that we're finally being honest with each other. I can't be sorry about that. Are you?"

He thought about how to answer that. She was right, he couldn't have stood much longer not telling her how he felt anyway, but everything else that had come with it, and the pain she was in? He would have done almost anything to stop it.

"Booth," she said softly. "I know you're a romantic, and I'm just not. You might not believe it yet, but I needed that... catharsis as much as you did, and I'm not going to waste time regretting the fact that a more considered approach might have made things different, or easier, now. I wouldn't trade you."

She really meant it, he realized. She was the only person he knew who was so willing to look for that one spark of gold in a ton of mud and filth. "I don't ever want to be responsible for your getting hurt, ever," he said, thickly. "It makes me sick."

"But you didn't, Seeley," she said, knowing he was still talking about what had happened before he left. "We all get bruised, and sometimes we don't know where they come from. It's just part of life-- that doesn't mean you stop living it. _You_ didn't hurt me. Things happen."

He nodded, but voiced his last doubt. "I should have been more careful..."

"And I should have eaten better, so I wasn't anemic, and I should have noticed I was pregnant. But... I didn't, and it hurts to think I wasted the chance to have the opportunity to make... other decisions." Jesus, he thought. She was blaming herself?

"Bones, that guy was a hundred pounds bigger than you. Even if you were built like a prizefighter, you still would have gotten hurt. You can't say you would have been fine if you'd done things differently, and from what Jack and Angela said, you were actually being way less cranky about eating and leaving at a semi-normal hour that usual. You can't say it's your fault. It's just... not," he said, the last statement said almost hotly. One or two tears spilled out of her eyes as she looked at him, and he brushed them away, then kissed her forehead.

"Alright," she said in a small voice, too tired to keep discussing it for now. He held her in his lap a while longer until she shivered a little.

"Chilly?" he asked, wondering. She'd lost Parker's quilt when he first pulled her into his lap.

"A little," she murmured.

"Well, that I can do something about," he said, settling her back against the arm of the couch and putting the quilt over her legs again.

"My grandma was stickler for socks," he said, coming back into the room with one of his warmer and louder pairs.

"She wore eyebleeding colors, too?" Bones queried, a slight twinkle in her eye.

"Those are from Parker from Christmas, you can't make fun of them, at least not around him."

"I shall take note," Brennan replied, half-prim, half-cheeky, putting them on and tucking herself back under the blanket. Booth fiddled the dial on the thermostat. Her place was always warmer than his-- he could always wear shorts if she got too cold. He thought about the last time he'd changed the thermostat from its usual 65. Tessa, probably. But now he had Bones here. In the midst of everything else, 'now he had Bones here' was still a good thought.

"More tea, or coffee?"

"Coffee. Any cookies? I had to keep Parker in oreos and pinwheels, and acquired a taste."

"It just so happens I do," Booth replied, reaching on top of the fridge to wave the unopened packages at her. The squints thought of everything.

"Pinwheels then," she smiled, then smiled again as the heat banged to life. Booth made up a plate and her mug, and brought them over.

"Be right back," he said, noticing she was curled up on herself still, and had a crease in her forehead. He went back to the bedroom, and looked with trepidation at all the pills and instructions. Different pills for different things at different times of day, some to counteract side effects from other pills. Antibiotics, iron pills, steroids, painkillers, sedatives-- he'd have to draw up a schedule if he was ever going to keep track. After triple checking, he saw there were only three that she needed right now, and came back out to offer them to her. She took them without comment, and washed them down with coffee, then held up a cookie. "These have more artificial than natural ingredients, you know. You should really buy the healthier versions for Parker."

Booth smiled as he started to argue with her about the risks of preservatives, then picked her up and tucked her into her bed when she nodded off, mid sentence, about ten minutes later, mumbling about water supplies and mutated fish. If she was arguing, she'd be better soon. He hoped so.


	9. Chapter 9

After Booth tucked Bones into bed and made sure she was covered up, he took up the bag of pills and all the other instructions, and brought them out to the kitchen, closing the bedroom door behind him. He laid them all out, shaking his head again at all the different things she was supposed to be taking at different times of day, then went to his desk and fished out some paper and a ruler. He felt like he was in sixth grade or something, drawing out lines for the hours of the day and an opposite axis for each of the medicines, but after it took him a half hour to fill the whole thing in, he was glad he'd done it. He wasn't as smart as Bones or the squints, but he could usually keep track of a lot of disparate details in his head. If this was this confusing, there was no way Bones would keep track of it either, at least as long as she was on so many painkillers. They made her so sleepy, and he definitely didn't want to let her take the wrong thing or too much of something by accident.

He pulled open her laptop then, and started to look things up to see if there was anything else he should know, and maybe save Bones the trouble of having to explain some of the more embarrassing stuff. He was nauseous for Bones all over again at how she must be feeling when he finished reading—so many different things going on all at once. He didn't think he ever knew that much about female anatomy, ever. They sure hadn't covered all the hormones and stuff when he had high school biology.

He made a few notes on the notepad he'd gotten out of stuff to look into further, and then dealt with the first order of business.

"Angela Montenegro."

"Hey, Ange, it's Booth."

"Booth, sweetie. Are you guys home now?"

"Yeah, we are." He sounded tired. No wonder. He didn't really look like he'd slept much when Bren was at the hospital—he was watching her like a hawk most of the time, even when she was sleeping, the times she and Jack had been there.

"How's Bren doing?"

The G-Man paused on his end of the line. "She's sleeping right now. She's uncomfortable, and there's a billion different things she has to take—she's got pills for side effects from other pills."

"Well, if you guys need anything, you just let me know," Angela offered.

"That's kind of why I was calling," Booth said. "I, ah, was checking out what stuff she might need, and one of the things I read said she needed female stuff."

Angela winced for the poor Agent. "The hospital didn't send her home with anything?"

"No, just pills and instruction sheets. What should I get?"

"Oh, sweetie, don't worry. I'll go pick up some things and bring them by after work, okay? You don't need to worry about that stuff on top of everything else." She could have sworn she heard a sigh of relief on his end, and maybe she did.

"Thanks, I appreciate that, " he said.

"Do you need anything else?" Angela asked.

Booth laughed tiredly. "No, you guys took care of everything else already. Thanks. I'm gonna need the name of your cleaning lady, though. My place hasn't looked this nice in a dog's age. Although now I'm going to be self-conscious knowing that somebody washed all my boxers."

Angela smiled to hear him trying to make a joke. He was pooped, everyone was. Picking up "female stuff" for Bren and stocking his fridge was the least they could do.

"Well, anything to know that you have Jack O'Lantern and Snoopy boxers. Though I promise not to pants you just to see if you're wearing them, okay? You call me if you think of anything else, otherwise, I'll call you after I've left the store to let you know I'm on my way over, okay?"

"Great. Thanks again, Angela." His voice sounded a little thick to Angela, so she started talking again, managing to keep her voice steady. They didn't need her getting all weepy on them, too.

"Hey. You just concentrate on Bren, and let me and Jack help with the details, okay? I'll talk to you later."

She hung up the phone and sighed, looking at it, only to hear a throat clearing behind her.

"That Seeley?" asked Cam.

Angela nodded. "Poor thing. The hospital didn't send Bren home with any pads or anything, and he wanted me to tell him what he needed to go get. I told him I'd take care of it."

Cam shook her head. "God. He does not need that, on top of anything else. The poor guy 's got enough to deal with. I just hope things stay quiet for a bit."

"Me too, Cam. Me too."

/

Angela came and went with what looked to Booth like a confusing array of things, and went back into the bedroom to wake Bones and talk to her for a bit. He stayed away—he was still red from when Angela handed him a huge container of yogurt and said, "Here, make sure she eats some of this everyday." He made the mistake of asking why, and Angela looked at him with sympathy before she said "Antibiotics cause yeast infections." He'd nodded, and even as he turned red, he filed it away in his too-rapidly growing store of knowledge about internal female anatomy. This was all his fault.

The three of them had some Thai at the island, and then Angela left for the night. Bones fell asleep while they were watching some boring documentary about African tribes, so Booth picked her up and tucked her back into bed, then went out to the kitchen to make sure she didn't need to take anything else tonight. He puttered around a bit, but the place was so clean there wasn't really anything to do, and he realized he was putting off the decision about where he was sleeping tonight.

He still hadn't decided when he went back to the bedroom to pull out some sweats and a t-shirt, but Bones grumbled and turned over.

"Mmmph. Coming to bed?" she mumbled.

Well, that decision was made. "Be right there," he said, finishing changing and slipping under the covers behind her. She immediately snuggled into him, and then moreso when he wrapped an arm over her waist. She was right, and she felt right, he thought. He had his center again. They were a little wobbly, but that would pass. He hoped.

/

The first sympathy cards arrived in the mail two days later, when they returned from Bones' twice daily "walk" to the small park at the end of Booth's block. She was still stiff and sore, and inclined to get winded with just the short walk in one direction, though the doctors had said she was doing well when they went earlier that day. She was also napping a lot, and rued the fact that even sitting on the sofa for two hours wore her out. She wasn't making nearly as much progress on her book as she was hoping she would, and though she knew better, she was frustrated at the very fitful levels of energy and moods she had. She had a strong urge to whine or cry right before it was time to take more painkillers, though so far, she thought she'd managed to be fairly circumspect. She was planning on trying to ignore the pamphlet the doctor had given her today about post-partum depression, and to concentrate on willing her hormones to behave. At least Booth had relaxed a bit, she thought. His serious and tender solicitousness up through that first day home was more overt sympathy than she wanted. He had since mostly resumed his half-scolding, half-joking way of taking care of her that he'd had before he left, which was close to "normal." They needed to get back to normal, before anything else could.

She wasn't looking forward to going back to work. The physical discomfort was still present, but it would fade. It was the emotional volatility she worried about. It was okay, as long as it was just Booth, he was used to her being a mess. But how was she going to deal with people who didn't really know either of them, but knew what had happened? She couldn't very well hide in the lab with the squints. She was barely ready to talk about it with Booth— the thought of having to interact with people trying to be polite and express sympathy was dreadful.

This second "walk" had Bones totally winded, Booth saw, as she lowered herself gingerly into the couch after kicking off her shoes. Booth hated how drained she still looked, but she _had_ lost three pints of blood. They'd put it all back, but it wasn't the same, he knew. He sorted through the mail as he watched her scoot into the sofa and then lean her head back on the arm, closing her eyes, then eyed the half-dozen greeting-card sized envelopes that had come, in addition to the regular bills and junk mail.

He and Bones hadn't really talked in more detail about what had happened since that first day, but he felt a lot better about the whole thing, or at least better able to concentrate, after he woke up the next morning and Bones wasn't any worse off than she was the day before. She'd smiled so sweetly at him when he kissed her good morning. Sweets would definitely have a field day right now, he'd thought. He was glad the kid had stayed away, other than to pass on his condolences through Cullen.

Rather than deal with the cards yet, Booth opened the bills, thinking about how the doctors said she could go back to work for "half day light work" in another week and a half. He wasn't so sure. She didn't seem like she'd have enough energy for that yet, at this pace, but he'd just focus on making sure she was sleeping and eating enough. If he was really worried about it still when the time was almost up, he'd just man up and try to convince her. She'd said she'd listen if he told her he thought she was being unreasonable. He just hoped it wasn't a conversation that would be necessary. He wanted things to be normal again.

He opened the envelopes he'd been putting off, then, and sorted through the pastel images of baby angels and other religious iconography, and insincere expressions of sympathy from office busybodies. He stuffed them in the trash, and tried to decide if there was a way he could slip laxatives into their coffee when he got back to the office. Cullen had specifically told people not to send cards or flowers. Maybe he could ask Jack to set fire ants on their houses.

The people who were really sympathetic hadn't sent anything—they'd just sent messages through friends, or come to visit themselves. Turner had brought Bones some fancy caramels when he came to see her, telling Booth about how Bones had eaten half a box of a package his daughter had left in the car one day during their second case together. Bones had freely laughed at Turner's depiction of her gluttony. The poor bastard had entered Bones' room half-fearfully, probably wondering if Booth was going to tear his throat out, merely throw him out, or come over and shake his hand. Booth settled for a nod and a "Turner," without moving from where he'd been sitting next to Bones on the bed. But the visit had been fine, and Booth relented a bit when he saw how completely upset Turner was about everything, and how he seemed genuinely fond of Bones. So many agents at the Bureau thought she was an ice queen squint, but Turner had clearly made time to see that Bones was just dedicated to her work, and didn't have time for social bullshit when there were murderers to catch.

Charlie and Geier had been taking care of most of Booth's day to day department paperwork, while pretending it was part of their usual workload, and emailing him about stuff they weren't sure they should bother Cullen about. The squints had been great, too. Cam was in an awkward position, since she and Dr. Brennan were not close in the way she and Angela were—she could hardly offer female sympathy in the same way the artist could. Instead, she did what she could to delay, defer or re-route requests for Dr. Brennan's expertise on cases while she was out of the office. She'd called once on something she didn't know how to deal with, and Brennan had promptly given her the information she needed to defer the request, with quiet thanks.

Booth saw Bones had fallen asleep on the couch while he was stuffing those cards in the trash, and checked the pill schedule. She needed some more antibiotics and steroids, so he shook them out and came over to wake her. "Temperance, love," he said, and she blinked awake to see him kneeling there with more pills and a glass of water. She was sick of pills. And sick of water. And sick of being sick. And sick of sleeping all the time-- she hadn't meant to fall asleep on the couch, and her bra was cutting into her.

"Thanks," she said, leaning forward placing a soft kiss on his lips before taking the pills from him. The hugging, sharing a bed and holding parts were easy. The remembering it was okay to kiss, now, however, was something they each still felt hesitant about. She swallowed the pills down with the whole glass of water, then handed it back as she pushed herself up to stand. The incisions still hurt, a lot, if she moved too quickly, and Booth was still watching her carefully when she did things like sitting down and standing up. She wondered if he'd ever been gut stabbed—he was watching like he actually knew how much it hurt.

"If I'm going to nap, I might as well do it properly," she said, and moved off to the bedroom. "I think I'll join you," he said, meaning it, and following her. Those stupid cards had wiped him out, suddenly.

He had almost puked again when Bones changed shirts in front of him in the bedroom the second day she was home—he'd always stepped out of the room when the doctors were with her at the hospital, and though he knew where they were, he hadn't seen the dressings they'd used or how big they were. As she was lifting her shirt slowly over her head, though, he caught sight of the long vertical strip of bandage on one side of her stomach, under her ribs, and the slightly shorter stripe under her navel, and above the low waistline of her yoga pants. He swallowed a huge wash of bile at the brand new reminder. He must have had a hell of a look on his face, because after she finished changing her shirt, she came over and hugged him, murmuring, "Never was one for bikinis anyway," as she stroked the hair on the back of his head.

Now, well, he wasn't ready to puke each time he saw those bandages while she got changed, but it was still a gut punch every time. Ripping off bandaids, he reminded himself. The doctors were pretty certain that both incisions would scar, at least a little. How scarred would she be on the inside when this was over, he wondered. He shook himself as Bones said, "you coming, or not?" then patted his side of his bed. That was some indication. He had a lot of scars, and he worked around them. Bones seemed like she would, too.


	10. Chapter 10

Brennan was beginning to feel restless the fourth morning home from the hospital, though she was still in a lot of pain and easily winded. But her mind was beginning to spin faster, having caught up with the painkillers. She'd decided to start taking fewer of the sedatives—she needed to deal with things, rather than let her emotions feel a little wooly most of the time. She was unamused by the irony of not wanting to think about how she felt about things, but of nonetheless admitting the necessity. She was curled on the sofa, working on an outline for the next chapter of her novel, when the phone rang. Booth, who'd been sitting next to her, reached over the back of the sofa to the table behind it to pick up the phone.

"Hello? Oh, hi," he said, looking less than excited, to Brennan's view. "Yes, she's doing better, thanks. What?" Booth's face rapidly changed from tired to angry. "You've got to be kidding me. No. Absolutely not. She can't spend all day in court." The emotion rolling over his face was like a fast-moving thunderstorm. The clouds were turning black, right now. He continued listening, then spoke again. "No. Her energy's too erratic."

At this point, Brennan motioned to Booth to give her the phone, but he clenched his jaw and ignored her.

"Booth, give me the phone," she said, sternly. He turned and gave her a mulish look, and she added, "Now."

"Hold on, will you?" he said, to whomever was on the other line. He handed her the phone, but didn't let go until he said "You can't do it, Bones."

She took the phone, giving him a look that would freeze lesser men. Booth was not lesser men. The heat of his anger was rolling off him as she answered the phone.

"Temperance Brennan."

"Cherie, it's Caroline Julian. Look—that murdering son of a bitch doctor's lawyer is moving to quash the grand jury without your testimony. Says your report isn't complete enough, and is necessary for the indictment to stand."

Brennan closed her eyes for a moment, suddenly exhausted. "It probably isn't," she said. "I didn't write it, the team did, and I signed it. I've got to admit, I don't really remember what's in it. I was on a lot of medication."

The prosecutor sighed on her end of the line. "That's what I was afraid of. I hate myself for asking, really, but I need your butt in a chair to testify to how you figured out it was him."

Brennan was about to agree when another cramp passed her, and she had to grit her teeth. When she opened her eyes, Booth was giving her this angry, pleading look. He was right. There was no way she could sit in a court room.

"Is there any way to videotape it? Caroline, I've got to admit, I'm not up for much right now. If we could do it someplace where I could take a break when I needed it, them maybe."

Booth looked only slightly less dismayed as Brennan made this suggestion.

Caroline replied thoughtfully. "I could arrange that. His lawyer's got no right to be there, so it would just be me, you, and the court reporter." And Booth, Brennan thought. Even if she didn't want him there, there was no way he would let her out of his sight right now.

"When do you need me?"

"The judge only gave me until tomorrow afternoon. I could get something set up this afternoon."

Brennan paused, then agreed. "Fine. We'll be there by 2."

"Thank you, Cherie. I'm sorry, but I'll see you then."

Booth silently took the phone from her, at a loss what to say. Brennan stared back at him, likewise tongue-tied. He pulled her into his lap, then, wrapping his arms around her tightly.

"Bones…" he began.

"He's not going to get away with it," came her voice, muffled from where her head was pressed into his chest. "Any of it. We can't let him." Her desperate tone broke Booth's resolve, so he said nothing, just began rocking her gently. He would just have to make sure she took lots of breaks and rested, even if he had to turn the damned camera off himself. After several minutes had passed in silence, he said, "I'd better go get you a suit and some things from your place. Which one do you want?"

"Something dark," she said. "I'm not in the mood for color. There's a red kit in the bathroom with makeup in it. Pick whatever you want." Booth's heart twisted at her sad tone, and the fact that she had to face this again so soon—but there wasn't anything he could do but agree with her. If she didn't go, then the bastard won, and they'd lose. Maybe everything.

0 0 0 0

They arrived at Caroline's office with fifteen minutes to spare. The trip from the car to the building and through the lobby, then up in the elevators, had been riddled with averted gazes, mumbled hellos, and silenced conversations in their wake. Brennan had tried to nap after Booth left to go get her things from her apartment, but found her mind racing. She didn't dare take a sedative and let her testimony be impaired, so she lay on her back and tried to do the breathing exercises she'd learned in karate. They worked only until the second person they passed on their way into the Hoover sent a shocked glance their way. Then, the tension she thought she'd breathed off came back tenfold.

She was glad of Booth's hand at her back. It used to annoy her, but right now, concentrating on it kept her knees from wobbling as they walked.

Once they reached Caroline's floor, things were better. People greeted them soberly, meeting their eyes, then carried on their normal conversations after the two partners passed.

Caroline, meeting them at her office, was to the point as ever, a relief for the both of them. "Y'all can use my couch, I've got coffee and tea and food. I got us the conference room across the hall. I'm sorry to ask this, Cherie," she said, taking Brennan's elbow and steering her into the conference room, "but you'll be making a difference."

Brennan nodded. "Let's get this over with, then."

0 0 0 0

Bones had often spent days on the stand, but after 45 minutes, Booth could see she was seriously worn. He made the "cut" sign across his throat to Caroline, and she and Brennan wrapped up their question. Even under the makeup she'd put on, Bones' color was poor. Though she was fair, when she was healthy, there was always the lightest pale pink tint in her cheeks. Not so now. "Drained" still described her.

Booth worried further when Bones didn't protest as he half lifted her out of her chair and walked her across the hall to Caroline's office. She'd lowered herself onto Caroline's couch as Booth shut the door, and didn't resist when he sat at the other end and pulled her over so she head was in his lap and she was curled on her side. Her hand groped for his until she found it, and she clenched it so tightly her knuckles turned white. She said nothing as she lay with her eyes closed, breathing into the physical pain and squeezing her raw-again grief and anger into Booth's hand. His hand, on her back, rubbing slowly and gently, worked with her breathing to calm her almost imperceptible shaking, and after about twenty minutes, she opened her eyes to look at the things on the table in front of them. "I'll take some peanut butter on half a bagel," she said, as she pushed herself up to sitting. She straightened her hair and makeup, then found her eyes welling ridiculously when she saw she'd left a trace of face powder on Booth's pants. "Bones, I've got it," he said, when she started swiping at the fabric, biting her lip. "You just eat."

He poured her some black tea while she ate, and she took the cup when she was done, using it to swallow down another painkiller. He made her drink another mug before he helped her up from the low-slung couch, then made sure she was settled with him bearing most of her weight back in her chair.

He sent Caroline an unmistakable glare, and the prosecutor, who'd never been on the receiving end of one of Booth's stares before, nearly crossed herself. She was already minded to make this as short as possible-- Booth didn't need to remind her of what she could clearly see. The doctor was poorly.

She began again, and Brennan gave her usual precise and clear testimony, though her hands were clasped, white knuckled, in her lap, below camera level. After another half hour, Booth called for a break again—her hands were now visibly shaking. "Wrap it up, Caroline," he said tersely, as he walked Bones across the hall again. He shut the door while still holding on to her, then physically lifted her and settled her in the same positions they'd taken before.

"I hate this," he gritted out, while smoothing some hair from her forehead. She let out a ragged breath, mumbled "almost done," and closed her eyes again. Booth concentrated on rubbing the knots that accumulated in her neck and shoulders in the mere half hour that had passed. He squashed his urge to find out where the sick bastard was being held. There'd be time for that, later.

0 0 0 0

Booth sat quietly, by sheer force of will, during the last twenty minutes of Bones' testimony, rather than pick her up immediately and carry her out of there. She was right that they had to do this, but it was killing him to realize all over again that she bore the entire physical brunt of it. She looked no better, now, than she had when he first saw her in the hospital, just over a week, now.

Brennan's thoughts, as she finished her testimony, ran in different circles. If she couldn't take care of herself before to stay healthy enough for she and Booth to have been able to make a reasoned decision, then at least she wasn't going to let the killer get away with his crimes toward their victims, when it was her own acts that made her too weak to testify. If she hadn't insisted on going in with Turner to arrest him, this never would have happened, and her victims' justice wouldn't be endangered.

The prosecutor didn't keep them after Brennan was done, other than to thank them solemnly again. She'd never seen the doctor looking so poorly, and wasn't sure if she'd make it out of there on her own steam. "Poor children," she thought to herself, as she watched Booth steer Brennan to the elevator.

Booth's phone buzzed as they waited, and he was inclined to ignore it except that he saw it was Cullen. "Yes, I'm still here. No, we were just leaving. If it's only going to take five minutes, then fine. Fine." Once they stepped in to the thankfully empty elevator, he said, "Cullen needs me to sign something on McFadden. Said he left it in my office. Will you be okay if we swing by there? You can wait in there while I run it over to him."

She nodded, and walked with him down the mostly empty halls to his office. It was the end of the workday, past it for some, and most office lights and desks were dark and empty. Booth had gotten a couch right before he'd left on his mission that he'd put on the inside wall of his office, out of the view through his door, and hadn't actually gotten to use it yet. Instead, he got Bones settled on it, then flipped through the folders on his desk before he found what he was looking for.

"I'll be right back," he said, bending down over his Bones, who'd curled onto her side, to press a kiss on her forehead. She nodded, wishing for home.

Booth couldn't have been gone more than five minutes when she heard two womens' voices out in the area outside the Agent's office. He'd left the lights off and the door open; Brennan doubted they knew she was in there.

"I heard she was in today to give taped testimony in that case with the doctor."

"I did, too. Shirley said she looked _awful_."

Brennan knew she should announce herself, or put her hands over her ears, but she was too exhausted to do anything except listen.

"Someone told me it wasn't even Booth's," the first one continued. "And now, she's got him at her beck and call."

"Well, how dumb can you be not to know that you're pregnant?"

"And, she's known to be reckless in the field. She would have probably lost it anyway, even if she did know. The poor child's better off."

Brennan clapped her hand over her mouth, biting down on the flesh of the base of her thumb to keep herself from making a noise. Booth's deadly cold voice joined the womens' outside.

"I'm interested to hear your thoughts on my partner. Cullen will be, too." There were gasps and protestations, but Booth shoved past them, harshly, then shut, too late, goddamnit, too late, the door to his office behind him, and turned on the lamp next to the couch.

"Temperance?" he said softly, sitting gingerly next to her completely huddled form on the couch. "Bones, sweetheart," he said, gathering her into his lap and making her look at him. "Those bitches don't know what they're talking about, okay?"

Booth's arms around her acted like the lifting of floodgates. She'd cried a little before, yes, but she'd managed to stop it before she could really focus too much on her own fault in this. To hear it from strangers—she couldn't avoid it, and the tamped-down bitter grief over this rawest part of it all burst, as if from a dam.

She sobbed brokenly into Booth's chest, harder than he could ever recall seeing her cry before. He'd heard the whole conversation, he thought, and their vicious scape-goating was just jealousy. Both were desk agents who'd failed in the field. He tried rubbing her back and telling her that he loved her, and that it wasn't her fault, but she only sobbed harder.

Bones was crying so forcefully that she was unaware when Cullen, who'd come down to ask Booth one last question, pushed open the door and stopped short. "Talk to Carla and Andrea," the agent practically growled, and Cullen nodded and backed out the door, intent on new prey.

"Temperance, stop it," Booth finally said, when her tears remained unabated. "You can do this at home, but right now, you're only giving them more fodder for gossip." He swallowed bile as he said it—it was harsh, but it worked. With a shuddering gasp, Brennan swallowed her tears, and drew in a few deep breaths.

"Good girl," he said, helping her up to her feet and leading her over to her desk so he could blot her face with the tissues victims' families usually used. As if there was any difference right now, he bitterly thought to himself.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, as she blew her nose into some tissues.

He took her chin gently, looking deep into her eyes. "Don't apologize, please. Just, don't. But let's get out of here and go home, okay?"

She nodded, and sniffed, put on as close to a calm face as she could manage. His poor Bones. While he privately thought Bones often pushed herself too hard, she was just flat-out-wrong to think she had any blame in this. She was even more pale than before, so he abandoned his usual hand in the middle of her back for a more secure arm around her waist. She didn't protest as they made their way to the elevators again—just leaned into him.

0 0 0 0

They made it down to the lobby and saw Dr. Sweets exiting from the opposite bank of elevators. Despite his youth and their occasional awkward interactions, he was one of the ones who could look them in the eye as he walked over to greet them. He was privately dismayed to see how Dr. Brennan looked, though he'd heard the two had had to come in today.

Booth, meanwhile, was certain Bones wouldn't make it back to the truck unless he carried her, and had been torn between leaving her here to go get it, or dealing with whatever fit of pride she might manage if he tried to carry her the rest of the way. The therapist's presence solved that problem.

"Sweets," he said, after they'd exchanged basic hellos. "I parked like three miles from here. Will you humor my alpha male tendencies and hang out with Bones while I go get the truck?"

Brennan half-smiled at his attempt to salvage her pride by self-deprecation, and managed a watery smile at the therapist. Sweets agreed readily. "I'd be glad to, I've been meaning to ask Dr. Brennan about her thoughts on a paper I read, in any event."

Booth nodded, and Sweets trailed them to some chairs just inside the entrance, and averted his gaze as Booth half-lowered Dr. Brennan into the chair, then jogged out the door and down the street.

Brennan paid the therapist the courtesy of playing along, asking about the paper immediately, and sharing what thoughts she could muster between her pain and exhaustion, and then need to just cry until she couldn't any more. Sweets was even more dismayed as he spoke with the doctor—she was as physically and emotionally exhausted as anyone he'd ever seen, and he became more distraught as he saw the overt stares and hostile looks she was getting as people came and went from the building. He'd stayed away from his patients, knowing his own life experience left him nothing to offer but a spare expression of sympathy, but he couldn't imagine, despite his psychological training, what would prompt such jealous or morbidly curious or hostile reactions from people who barely knew either partner. He supposed it was jealousy. Their excellent reputations and high rate of success preceded them. Add physically attractive looks and on the doctor's part, financial success, and he supposed it was a sure fire recipe for vicious, impersonal jealousy. But he couldn't understand it, in the face of such a clear and personal tragedy.

Both saw Booth's truck pull up immediately outside the entrance, as the agent double parked and exchanged some words with some Bureau person standing on the sidewalk. "Everybody's an asshole," he muttered as he came back in, then helped Bones out of the chair again, pulling her securely against his side. Brennan didn't even roll her eyes at Booth's manhandling—she'd been feeling increasingly worse since even before those women upstairs, and wasn't quite sure she would manage the newly-short distance back to the truck on her own. She wouldn't dare ask Sweets for his arm—that was too much overlap between personal and work.

"Thanks again," Booth said as he noticed the therapist trailing slightly behind them as they got out to the sidewalk. The therapist was in the perfect position to grab Dr. Brennan's shoulders when her knees buckled, and the two men let her down onto the pavement. "Sorry," she gasped, bent over on herself as Booth knelt in front of her. "Sorry," she said again, then her eyes rolled back into her head as she sagged.


	11. Chapter 11

Later, Booth couldn't swear honestly that he'd ever seen so much blood come from one person—or at least so much that scared him so much. There was always an ambulance parked at the Hoover, but in the thirty or so seconds that it took Sweets to sprint down the block to get them, Booth was sure this was it. He picked Bones up himself, handing her in to the EMTs, as he told them what they were dealing with. By what little grace there was, they had both her blood type and platelets. He stooped long enough in the back entrance of the ambulance to toss his truck keys to the dumbstruck therapist standing by, and call, "Here, call Angela, or Jack. And move the truck." Sweets' hand automatically came up to catch the keys. A few moments later, when he finished his call to Ms. Montenegro, he went to move the truck, then shuddered as he went to turn the ignition. The keys had left a bloody print on his hand where he'd caught them.

0 0 0 0 0 0

Sweets met the two squints at the main entrance to the hospital, then followed them in, at a loss other than to grab from the back what he thought might be a bag of Booth's things. Booth was nowhere to be found, but Sweets collected himself enough to flash his own FBI badge and inquire as to Brennan's whereabouts. The nurse obediently made a call, then advised them that Brennan was already in surgery. That likely explained where Booth was.

The three made their way to a bank of chairs in a far corner of the waiting room, as Sweets haltingly told them what he'd seen and heard about the partners' day. Both Angela and Hodgins listened gravely, a few tears leaking from Angela's eyes, and each asked a few questions to clarify. When he finished, the therapist felt lost. "I… I should probably go," he said, thinking there was no way he would really be welcome.

Angela reached out and laid her hand on his arm. "No, stay. Bren can use all the good vibes we can give her."

Sweets nodded and sat back, then concentrated on sending the best vibes of his life.

0 0 0 0 0 0

Booth came down two hours later, looking grey. He registered the three, and said in a monotone, "They've got her stable, but she lost a lot more blood this time, and they had do redo all the stitches, plus more. It'll be another hour, maybe more."

Angela stood, and took him by the arm. "Here, sweetie," she said, "come with me for a minute." She steered him down to the bathroom and closed and locked the door behind them, then pulled his suit jacket off his shoulders. "Hold on a sec," she said, as she unflinchingly rolled up his bloodied shirtsleeves to the elbow, and clucked to herself at the stain on the front of the shirt. She ran the hot water, and wondered if she'd have to push his hands under the water like she'd had to with Bren, less than half year ago. "Here, Booth," she said, patting his back. "Wash your hands and your face, okay? They won't let you see Bren when she wakes up if you're all dirty, right?" The skin on the back of her neck crawled as she realized she'd said almost the same thing to Bren after the Checkerbox.

Booth nodded and stepped forward, managing it himself, watching half-fascinated as the pink soapy swirl circled the drain. He shook himself then, like a wet dog, and dragged his clean hands over his face, the heat of the water reviving him slightly, even as it dripped under his collar.

"Thanks, Ange," he said, when she handed him a wad of paper towels. He dried off, then loosed his tie, noting the artist's concerned look in the mirror. This wasn't the time to fall apart in front of even just one of the team, even if Angela would be the only person besides Bones who he'd choose. He took his jacket back from her, folding it over his arm, and dropped a kiss on the top of her head.

Angela, meanwhile, wrapped him in an embrace. Recalling some of what the therapist had told her about the day's events, she looked up and said fiercely to him, "You just keep telling her until she believes you."

He nodded, and kissed the top of her head again. "Let's go," he said, opening the door and giving her the worst attempt at a smile Angela'd ever seen in her life.

0 0 0 0 0

Booth declined anything when Hodgins went to the cafeteria. He was so nauseous he wasn't sure he'd ever eat again. Between the thought that he'd lose Bones all over again, and then the scene in the operating room… he squashed that memory flat, for now. At one point, Sweets' phone buzzed, and the therapist walked out to the hall to answer.

"Lance Sweets," he said.

"It's Cullen. What the hell happened?"

Sweets described what he'd seen, and what they currently knew, prompting only a "Jesus fucking Christ" from the Deputy Director. If Sweets believed in God, he'd curse him right now, he supposed. He went on to say that they expected to know more shortly, and received a "call me as soon as you know" in return.

Sweets was less than surprised after the call. It was a badly kept secret that Cullen was most likely grooming Booth to replace him, and that he'd been in Dr. Brennan's camp since his daughter's death. Sweets had essentially been under orders to keep the two partners together, though until recently, he'd thought it was because of their close rate. Now, he suspected that Cullen had suspected for a while what it had taken Sweets much longer to twig to—the two weren't just deeply attached best friends, but completely in love. As he looked back in at the Agent, who despite looking exhausted, was still consoling the other two team members, he sagged a bit. He was supposed to be a source of emotional recourse, but right now, seeing his patients so anguished, he just felt uncentered.

0 0 0 0 0

Brennan woke to feel Booth's hand worrying her own. There were monitors, and a tube up her nose, but she felt strangely unmoored from her body. "Hi," she managed, and Booth's eyes teared as she spoke. He shifted to sit next to her, then stroked her cheek.

"No going anywhere for you for a week," he said tenderly, then answered her yet-unspoken question. "No gory details, either. You can read your chart later."

"Too many painkillers anyway," she managed. "Everything's fuzzy."

"Well, you'll be fuzzy a bit longer," he replied, then shifted to sit behind her and take her in his arms. "They want you to stay put for a bit, okay?"

Brennan nodded, though a detached part of her brain said it was clear she hadn't much choice. "How long was I out?" she asked muzzily.

"No gory details, Bones," his voice said in her ear. She half turned and tried to make a bratty face at him, but was so drugged she lost focus and just stared at him instead. "I will tell you two things, though, Bones," Booth said, tracing the line of her face. She blinked sleepily at him, then turned her face into his neck. He tucked her head under his chin, and kept talking. "It wasn't your fault, Bones, and I love you. You got it?" Brennan heard him saying something, but she was so sleepy, and he was warm. She loved when Booth held her. He was repeating himself, but she couldn't be sure what he was saying. Something nice.

0 0 0 0 0

Booth regretted the necessity of telling the squints and Sweets that the doctors had decreed no visitors at all for the next two days, and promised to call Angela daily. The four of them had stuck it out for six hours, but Bones was so out of it that there was no way they'd get any sense out of her anyway.

"They really want her mostly asleep the next few days," he explained, reluctant still to tell them how bad it had been. "They said she's going to be here two weeks, probably, just to keep the stitches from reopening, so there'll be time to visit her later. I'll make sure she knows you were here." Angela suspected there was more going on, but she'd take the agent's assurance that whatever had happened before, Bren was stable enough for him to stop looking so grey.

The three nodded, reluctantly, and Sweets hauled out the duffel and keys he'd brought in from Booth's truck, handing them to the agent. Booth's "Thanks, kid," as he clapped him lightly on the shoulder for once didn't bother Sweets. He was a kid, compared.

0 0 0 0 0

Brennan would wake intermittently, still at a remove from her body, and still incredibly fuzzy. She tried glaring at Booth, since she knew she must have a tremendous number of drugs in her system, but he just squeezed her and said, "doctor's orders, Bones," before repeating some reassurance to her as she drifted off again.

Eventually, though she had no way of gauging how long it had been, she started waking up for longer periods, and having strange, half-remembered conversations with Booth, who didn't seem to have moved. She wasn't sure if it was the third or fourth time she woke like this that she found herself loopily asking Booth t o tell her a story.

"What kind of a story?" he asked, shifting them so she was nestled to look up at him. Under any other circumstances, the idea of Bones asking for a story would be funny, but she still looked like hell, and felt more fragile than eggshells.

"I don't know," she said, unaware of the effect of her words. "I don't know any stories."

Booth's heart stopped, then pounded once, hard, at her statement. He liked Max and Russ, really, he did, but it was things like this that made him wonder what Bones' life had been like even before her parents disappeared. "Well, how about I make one up, then," he suggested.

She nodded sagely, then snuggled into him trustingly, her face wide open. "Sounds good."

Booth paused for a long moment, thinking, and then, he began.

"Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess who was also a brilliant forensic anthropologist, who helped the families in her kingdom by giving them back the treasures that they'd lost. There was also a handsome, brave knight, who rode his horse all over his kingdom chasing dragons and highwaymen that went after the people in his kingdom. Both the princess and the knight were really good at their jobs, and inclined to be a little cocky about it."

Bones snorted as she listened to him. "'M'not cocky, 'm just'fiably proud of m'accomplishments. You too," she said, trailing off.

Booth squeezed her gently, then kissed her temple. "Shh, it's my story, quit interrupting me. Anyway… Princess Temperance and Sir Seeley were really good at their jobs, and one day, the kings of Squintland and Coptopia got together over a tanker of mead and decided that both kingdoms' subjects would be better off if the princess and the knight worked together.

So, they did, and they caught lots of dragons and highwaymen, and returned lots of treasures that were lost to families who didn't ever think they'd get their lost treasures back. The people of Squintland and Coptopia were able to sleep better at night because the princess and the knight rode all over both kingdoms on Sir Seeley's horse, watching out for them, in between tankers of mead and mulled wine and mee krab at Princess Temperance's castle."

Bones' forehead scrunched in confusion. "Why do they always go to her castle, anyway?"

Booth kissed her forehead, and continued. "Well, the princess' castle is bigger and smells nicer, and anyway, the knight's noble abode had ghosts in it."

"Ghosts are bad," Bones said, wide-eyed.

"Right. So Sir Seeley and Princess Temperance had lots of adventures, and became good friends, and helped each other out, because that's what real friends do. Princess Temperance made a lot of Sir Seeley's ghosts go away, and Sir Seeley helped Princess Temperance find some of the treasure she thought she'd lost a long time ago."

"Did she really make the ghosts go away?" she asked, disbelievingly.

"Definitely," he said firmly, watching her file it away, as out of it as she was. "So then, the knight and the princess kept helping the two kingdoms' subjects, even though it was really hard sometimes, and even though the two friends both wondered if they'd ever get rid of all the dragons and highwaymen, or find all the lost treasures. But they kept working anyway, because they knew they'd feel worse if they quit just because they were tired."

"Tired doesn't matter, dragons are bad," Bones said emphatically. His heart twisted again. Her current condition was proof of that belief.

"Then, one day, a highwayman shot Sir Seeley, and he thought he was a goner. He was sad, because Princess Temperance was there, and he hadn't gotten to tell her that he loved her more than any princess or milkmaid in any kingdom, anywhere. When he woke up, he found out that the court jester had told Princess Temperance that he was dead, and then the princess' chancellor betrayed her and the knight to a really big dragon, and the two friends were so busy cleaning that up that Sir Seeley decided he couldn't tell Princess Temperance how he felt until the kingdoms were safer again."

Booth paused for breath, and made sure Bones was still paying attention, or at least looking at him when he started again. "Sir Seeley was really stupid to do that, because the next thing he knew, a really bad series of dragons came along. After the friends got rid of a particularly bad one and had a long night at the princess' castle afterward, Sir Seeley lost his shit for a bit, because he thought he might have hurt the princess. She straightened him out as quickly as possible, but in the meantime, an old dragon from Sir Seeley's solo knight days came back, and he had to leave to go take care of it before he could talk to the princess about what happened at her castle. He told the king of Coptopia to send another knight, and that he couldn't go, but…"

"The princess would have told him he had to go, anyway," Bones supplied, matter-of-factly and expectantly staring back at him, as if she'd guessed that was the next, natural part of the story, and was waiting for him to finish the rest.

Booth blinked, and then swallowed. They hadn't discussed _that_. Something loosened a little in his gut, and he swallowed the lump in his throat to continue.

"Well, the knight didn't know that then. But he got the dragon he was chasing, though it took him a while, and then he got ready to go back to the princess. What he didn't know is that before he left, he and the princess had found a treasure of their own. The princess didn't know it either, and while the knight was away, she kept helping other Coptopia knights fight dragons and highwaymen." He stopped again to trace her cheek and see if she was still following, but she seemed to be.

"Anyway. While Sir Seeley was away, Princess Temperance fought a really big dragon, and he hurt the princess and stole the treasure that neither she nor Sir Seeley even knew that they'd found. And because she was so strong and brave, even though she was hurt, the princess still captured the dragon. When Sir Seeley came back, after borrowing a really fast horse when he heard that his princess was hurt, he was horrified to find out how bad it actually was, because he knew if they fought the dragon together, the princess might not have been hurt. But he also knew that even if he'd been here, neither he nor the princess could have protected a treasure they didn't know that they had, and he also knew that sometimes, dragons stole treasures from even the bravest and strongest knights and princesses. So the knight tried to concentrate on helping the princess get better, because while he was sad they'd lost their new treasure, he was more scared of losing the princess, because she was the biggest and best treasure of all. He tried to get the princess to understand that sometimes treasures got lost, or were hard to discover, for lots of different reasons, and that it wasn't her fault. See, it broke the knight's heart to think that the princess faced such a big, strong dragon without him, and did better than any other princesses could have done, combined, and yet she still thought she'd failed."

Bones still seemed to be following, so Booth swallowed to moisten his throat and bent kiss her nose softly. She got crossed-eyed as he did so, and blinked to clear her vision and stare back at him as he continued.

"Then, the dragon Princess Temperance captured tried to escape, and the princess had to fight him again. The knight tried to help, but because of the special powers the princess used the first time to capture the dragon, there wasn't a lot the knight could do except try to lend moral support. The Princess again made sure the dragon couldn't escape, but her wounds from before got worse, and she got very sick again, especially after some jealous squires from Coptopia tried to blame the princess for something that was only the dragon's fault."

Brennan had been following Booth's story, up to a point. Even as part of her was completely incapable of mustering her usual rhetoric under the influence of the drugs, there was a part of her brain that could still somewhat rationally observe what was going on. She thought she knew where Booth was going with the story, at least up to the part of her knowing he needed to go after the dragon, but the story he'd continued telling her after that was very different from what she thought it would be. She was confused, and a little scared to have lost the thread of what the rest of the story would be. She wasn't quite capable of expressing that, though, and could only ask, "What happened then?"

Booth shifted her a little and thought, not missing the look of confusion and uncertainty on her face. He'd found she focused a little better if he touched her face every so often, so he stroked her cheek again before continuing.

"Well, the knight was even more scared this time, and so were the court jester, and the kings and duchesses, and some of the squires and lords and ladies in waiting. Sir Seeley didn't know what else he could do except something Princess Temperance's favorite lady in waiting told him, something he'd already tried, so he tried it again. He told the princess while she was sleeping that he loved her, and that it wasn't her fault that the dragon had stolen their treasure, and that she'd done more than any five knights and princesses together could possibly expect to have done to help the subjects of Squintland and Coptopia."

Brennan swallowed, taking it in. "What happens when the princess wakes up?"

Booth kissed her forehead, to recapture her focus, and spoke again. "Well, she'll believe what Sir Seeley told her, and they two of them will go back to helping the people in their two kingdoms once the princess feels better. And they'll do it even though there are some squires and subjects who don't understand what it's like to chase dragons and highwaymen, or how hard it is to find all those treasures, and who will be jealous because all they see is the knight's shiny sword and the princess' sparkling tiara. That won't matter to the knight and the princess, because they know they love each other, and that they understand how hard it is to do what they do, even if no one else does. And they'll have help from some loyal squires and lords and ladies, and the king of Coptopia and the Duchess of Squintland, because all those people know how hard the knight and the princess work, too."

Bones had been almost staring, she was concentrating so hard on what he was saying, so he stopped, to give her a break. It was a lot to take in, he knew. But he still didn't expect, though he should have, her next heartbreaking question, asked in the smallest voice he'd ever heard from her. "What if the knight misses the treasure they lost and wants to replace it? What if the princess doesn't know if she's brave enough to try to find one again?" Any doubt Booth had that she understood what he was saying went out the window.

He took her chin between his fingers to make sure she was looking at him. "He'll still think the princess is the treasure he wants most in the world, the thing he never wants to lose, ever."

"He will?" Her eyes were wide, almost surprised.

Booth nodded. "Definitely. See, like I said earlier, the knight loves her more than anything because princess made the worst ghosts go away, and made the knight stronger and braver than before, because he could sleep at night again, instead of having ghosts bothering him all the time. He also loves her because the princess hates dragons and highwaymen as much as he does, and she never gives up, even when the dragons are stronger. He loves her, too, because not only is the princess incredibly smart and beautiful, but because she's really cute when she argues with the knight about whether jousting contests and traditional feasts in the kingdom are socially relevant, or whether it's healthy to eat all those smoked hams the knight likes to eat."

Booth said the last as tenderly as anything else he'd said since he began, and Bones exhaled deeply against him, a look of confusion warring with hope on her face, even as her eyelids started to droop again.

"What happens next?" she half-mumbled.

"That's a story for another day," Booth replied, smoothing her forehead with one finger. "Right now the princess just has to believe what the knight tells her, because he loves her, and would never lie to her."

She sighed again, her eyes shut this time. "He wouldn't," she mumbled, a slight smile curving the edge of her mouth.

"No, he wouldn't," Booth replied, shifting so she could lie flatter against him. "Sweet dreams, princess," he said, brushing his lips lightly over hers as her eyes fluttered open and shut again. She sighed, and smiled a little more, mumbling, "Want m'own horse and sword."

He smiled up at the ceiling, tears of relief filling his eyes. If she was arguing with him, she believed him.


	12. Chapter 12

Bones remained convinced, though she knew it was technically impossible, that Booth hadn't actually left her side the entire four days she'd been essentially drugged out of her mind. It wasn't true, though. He'd left her to stand on the other side of the curtain while the doctors and nurses checked her over or bathed her. He'd left her to go to the toilet, or shower and change into the clothes Jack and Angela brought him her second day in the hospital. He stepped out into the hall, where he could still see her through the window, to make phone calls to her family and their coworkers and friends. He stepped out into the hall once, on the fourth day, talking to Jack while Angela sat and talked to a still-out-of-it Bones. It had been quiet, but Booth wondered what would happen when something finally came up, and Bones wasn't available to deal with it.

"How's she doing?" the bug man had asked, observing the still wan-looking doctor through the window.

"Better—they're tapering back the sedatives now, but she's going to be in another week. They don't want her moving too much and tearing the stitches again."

"Poor Dr. B.," Hodgins murmured allowed, privately thinking, "Booth too."

"Bones is a trooper," the G-Man replied. "She was awake for a bit last night, and wanted me to tell her a story." A sad smile ghosted the edge of the agent's mouth. Hodgins refrained from asking for details.

Angela came out after not too much longer, sniffling but otherwise composed. Booth gave each loyal squint a small hug, then went back to watching and holding his Bones while she slept. It wasn't true he'd never left her side. He did, exactly forty-two times. He'd counted.

/

Brennan was truly cranky when she finally woke the next day, having dreamt of dancing skeletons that got in her way while she was trying to work down in Limbo. She snarled at the nurse when she came in to help her to the bathroom, grumbled when she found she was weak as a kitten and needed help in the shower, whined at the bland solid food that they gave her three meals in a row. Everyone humored her, which made her crankiest of all.

"I don't know why everyone's being so nice," she said, peevish with exhaustion though she'd only been over to the bathroom and back twice all day, as her only physical activity. Her head still felt fuzzy, and she had no clear recollection of the time she'd been under, though she had vague recollections of talking with Booth, and a long story she couldn't remember the details of—only that it was true.

Booth, who as usual was sitting behind her, his arms wrapped around her, said quietly, "Because you have 45 new stitches, on top of your old ones, lost almost 5 pints of blood, and coded twice in the operating room. Cranky is good."

"Oh," she said weakly, unable to form a better response. Her shock at the news of how sick she'd been and still was drained her peevishness from her, and she sighed. "I just want things to be normal," she said. "I'm tired of not feeling right."

Booth's lips pressed into the side of her neck. "One day at a time, Bones, okay?"

/

Brennan got better slowly but steadily, though she admitted to herself that her recovery this time would be longer, even once she went home. Her hospital room was frequented by visitors, in a schedule tightly managed by Booth, no more than two a day for no more than thirty minutes each. He wasn't taking any chances with Bones' energy levels this time. Everyone had to call in advance, except for Jack and Angela, who came by for dinner each night for an hour. They could be trusted to keep their voices down if Bones nodded off while they were talking, and to respond with just enough information to others' inquiries into her health.

Booth smiled to himself as the king of Coptopia and duchess of Squintland each came once to visit, each awkward, helpful and sincere in their own ways. Sweets and Turner both paid two visits each, each man affected by the doctor's indomitable will despite her current fragility. Caroline Julian came twice, her personal horror and guilt when she heard of the doctor's collapse only slightly relieved when Cullen told her about the two women he'd fired in a public lambasting that was the talk of the Bureau for months. Caroline made it her mission to squash all the remaining gossip about the two partners, or "the children," as she'd started calling them in her head. Both Cullen and Sweets would run into her rounding on anyone who so much as speculated on when Booth was returning to work, much less anything further. Cullen choked on his coffee the first time he said "I heard she ripped him a new asshole," and Sweets responded by saying, "No, we call it '_getting a Julian,_' now."

Brennan's father and brother came to visit mid-way through her stay, two days in a row. At the end of their visit the first day, right as Jack and Angela arrived for dinner, Angela watched Bren wave them off. "Don't they need keys, Bren?" she asked. She knew she'd taken Bren's purse, along with her keys, to Booth's apartment for safekeeping.

"Ange, it's my father," Brennan replied, half rolling her eyes. "He either made a set a long time ago, or isn't too worried about getting caught picking the lock."

Booth snorted. The Keenans were on their own. He had a Brennan to take care of.

/

Brennan reflected that there was at least one good thing about her hospital stay, midway through. She'd been taking walks around the floor with Booth and a nurse, and had wobbled a little as she tried to get out of the way when a team came rushing past to deal with a code. Booth had immediately steadied her with his always-present hand at her back, but Brennan's very petite, very young nurse also reached out to grab Brennan, pulling her forward at her upper arm.

Booth didn't fail to note that an hour later, Bones was starting to get faint finger-shaped bruise marks in the same place where the nurse had clutched her, so briefly. And that Bones paid the bruises no mind, whatsoever. Something loosened a little more in his gut. He didn't like that she bruised like a peach-- not at all. But he could maybe start to believe what she'd said—that he hadn't hurt her, and that bruises didn't mean you stopped living your life, just because they might happen.

The doctors discharged Brennan two full weeks after she'd first come in; she chafed, internally, the last three days, pushing herself on her now solo walks around the floor while Booth was in the cafeteria or making phone calls. He caught her beginning to sweat and breathe heavily midway through her last go-round of the floor on the second-to-last day, and hustled her back to her room with such a scared, stern look on his face that she couldn't protest. The only thing he said to her about it was, "Bones. Please." She took it easier, after that.

/

Booth's apartment was again cleaned and restocked with fresh food when the partners came home the second time from the hospital. The first week, Brennan didn't just suffer Booth's coddling—she needed it, her energy still fitful. Chairs and beds hurt more, getting in and out of this time. She insisted the bathroom was different, though it wasn't, but she wasn't going to turn him into her night nurse. He'd already been through enough. She managed the shower likewise, not daring to try a bath yet.

"I'm a champion singles napper," she said sourly one day toward the end of her first week at home, after he'd helped get her settled in bed again, for the third time that day. They'd been watching tennis on television, and she'd fallen asleep in the midst of a match she actually wanted to watch.

"Well then," he said, getting in behind her and pulling her gently into him, "maybe you should practice your doubles." It was hard to protest when he put it that way.

Booth continued to regulate the number of visitors to the house and telephone calls, becoming more reliant on email than he'd ever been before. He had no problem with Bones making as many calls as she wanted, but he didn't want people calling the house while she was napping—she didn't always sleep deeply, and was sometimes confused if she woke suddenly. She was getting better, and she was putting up very patiently with the way he was constantly trying to stuff her with food. He recognized even as he did it that he'd always been more than a little obsessed with making sure that she ate, but he couldn't stop believing that if she was just a little more solid, had a few more calories in her, that she'd get better, sooner. He couldn't nearly lose her again.

"Admit it, Booth," she said one day from the couch, after he offered her another plate of cookies not forty-five minutes after she'd finished the last one. "You were a grandmother in your past life."

He made a face at her and plunked the plate of cookies down anyway. "You don't call, Temperance, you don't write. Don't you love your poor Boothy? Here, have a cookie," he said, taking one of the plate and advancing on her as if he was going to force feed it to her. She swatted him, grabbing the wrist holding the cookie to pull him in for a kiss.

When she let go, she murmured, "Just like kissing my Grandma," against his lips.

He barked a laugh, then tried his best Caroline Julian. "You sure must like your Grandma."

She smirked, and replied. "I do."

/

Brennan's dreams during and after her release from the hospital continued to be vivid, and odd. She supposed they were the result of the painkillers she had to admit she still needed—though somehow, she'd found when she first really woke at the hospital, that her outlook on the larger scope of things had improved drastically, and she no longer felt the need for the sedatives. Her dreams featured dancing skeletons, and talking cats, and all sorts of fantastical things, but she kept having one particular set of recurring dreams, of she and Booth on an armored horse, or Angela wearing a Maid Marian outfit, or Sweets in a court jester's outfit, making jokes in the lab as Jack, clad in the pompous robes of a courtier mumbled something about dragon scales and highwaymens' fingerprints. She seemed to have those particular dreams the most when Booth lay down for a nap with her. It was all very odd, yet somehow familiar.

Unlike Bones, Booth wasn't restless at all through the first two weeks she was home. He caught up on his workouts, and convinced Rebecca to let Parker come over for an hour after school a few times a week, since his son clearly had a major crush on Bones, and also somehow got that she needed quiet , not rambunctious company. It was the calmest he'd ever seen Parker, snuggled up next to Bones on the couch while she helped him with homework or played go fish with him, and he was amazed to see how close the two of them had become while he was away. Parker wanted to watch cartoons one afternoon, and was snug up against Bones. Without her realizing it, Booth thought, she would occasionally, idly, brush back Parker's unruly curls as they flopped into his face when he moved.

Booth had been hesitant the first time he left to go on a run at the end of the first week, but when he'd come back after only half an hour, Bones had promptly thrown a pillow at him, yelling "Get yourself back out there and don't come back until the full hour is up!" He loved that she yelled at him. He loved even more that the pillow she threw solidly connected with his head. It didn't hurt, it was a pillow, after all, but it was a good, solid throw.

They'd been going on "walks" again to the park at the end of the block, and at the end of the second week, Bones announced that she wanted to go to the diner. "After all, I can manage to keep awake for four solid hours at a time, now," she said, only somewhat caustically. "And I want French fries and a milkshake." Booth could hardly say no to that statement, though he fretted on their way over if he was going to find a parking space near enough. Fortunately he did, and Bones ate a whole order of fries, one whole chocolate milkshake, and argued with him animatedly about whether a double order of bacon on his bacon cheeseburger was going to kill him faster than a plain cheeseburger, as well as his continuing insistence on shopping at conventional supermarkets.

"Fine. You buy organic bacon and cheese and hamburger, Bones, and make me the best goddamned bacon cheeseburger in the world, and I'll think about it."

"Maybe I will," she retorted. "And if I'm right, then you have to eat tofu every once in a while."

The fact that she was thinking in terms of making him eat tofu indefinitely into the future made him even happier than when that pillow whacked him in the side of the head.

Brennan shamelessly took advantage thereafter, every other day or so. She was still willing to admit she was tired after their "adventures," so she'd take a day of rest before she'd propose another eating expedition.

"I want some ice cream. There's a good one near this bookstore I wouldn't mind visiting."

"Angela said there's a great new Italian bakery next to a new toy store that I hear has lovely educational toys. Parker could use some more games here."

"I hear there's some incredible fried dough with lemon butter at the crafts festival on the mall tomorrow. Did I ever tell you I love fried dough?"

"There's a new pretzel vendor at the Aquarium, and Parker wanted to see the dolphin show."

Booth didn't mind. It was nice to get out of the house, somehow the parking gods still smiled on him so they never had too far to walk, and Bones was eating. There wasn't a whole heck of a lot more he could ask, without feeling greedy.

/

It wasn't all sweetness and light. Bones forgot to take her painkillers one afternoon while Booth was out getting more groceries, and was unwittingly snarly as he came in and she tried to help him put away groceries. She gasped, once, as she reached overhead, then gasped again as Booth pulled the can from her hand and pulled her flush against him, quickly but completely measured, his heart pounding against hers for long minutes after the short stabbing pain was gone. This time, he'd not only drawn out a schedule, but laid out the pills for each part of the day in their own paper cups. As he clutched her to him, he saw over her shoulder that she'd missed her dose from an hour ago. When he managed to unwrap his arms from around her, he could see she was startled by the force of his reaction. He took advantage, wordlessly handing her the pills and some water, and then carrying her down to bed and crawling in after her. His heart hammered under her ear where he'd settled her, only gradually slowing as the painkillers and her own sudden tiredness carried her off. She didn't complain when she found he'd reprogrammed her cell phone to buzz annoyingly at the hours when it was time to take more pills.

A few times, his parents called, and he carried the phone out of the room to have what sounded like short, terse conversations in the monotone Brennan knew he tended to use when he was holding back anger or some other emotion. The third time it happened and he made to get up from the couch with the phone, she grasped his wrist, making him stay, and then pulled his arm around her shoulders so she could turn and put her arms around his waist as he spoke. He was still tense, and terse, and monotonous in his tone of voice, but he relaxed more quickly afterward, playing with the strands of her hair as she leant her head against his chest while she embraced him. She didn't ask him any questions, and the next time that they called, he stayed put, and pulled her head into his lap, stroking her cheek while he made his responses to what was clearly a call to talk all about them, and not ask about him. Her heart ached for him. She knew he'd had a happy childhood, but that had all changed at some point. She hadn't had a happy later childhood at all, but now that she had her family back, she couldn't complain about their affection and attempts at attention. She wondered which of them was better off, if either of them was.

At one point during the next conversation, when Bones fell asleep so sweetly, so trustingly in his lap as he listened to them spew more self-absorption, and avoid any mention or question of his life, Booth said, "You know, you haven't asked how Parker is, or what's been going on with me." There was a brief silence on the other end of the line and a self-conscious guilty response that he knew was as good as he'd get, so he focused on telling them about Parker's adventures on a Sunday School trip.

Booth wasn't quite sure why he'd been answering the phone all this time, given the way they'd seemed to call out of duty alone, but the next time they awkwardly asked after him, unprompted this time, his said, "I've got a new girlfriend, my partner from work, she's not catholic, she's wonderful, and I'm completely in love. We might even move in together." Brennan said nothing as he continued to play with her hair as he spoke. It was probably true. They hadn't really spoken about it, but in the three weeks since her most recent release from the hospital, she realized that she would miss him too much if she had to sleep away from him even part of the time.

/

Midway through the third week, she had a doctor's appointment, and they were cautiously optimistic about her returning to work in another three weeks. Brennan sighed inwardly, but found herself unable to rue her own stupidity about it all. She just missed work, and could only work so much on her books. She loved spending time with Booth, but she needed their cases, and needed to be doing more, physically, than she was. She wondered, too, about Booth.

She broached it one night as he stood making dinner at the counter. "When are you going back to work?" she asked.

"When you are," he said, his concentration still on not cutting his fingers as he chopped all the weird vegetables Bones liked in her salad.

"But you've got to be out of vacation and personal time…" she wondered aloud. She didn't want him, too, to be regarded as less than serious about his career, now that she really could take care of herself. It would be harder, but she knew she could manage.

"No," he said mildly, de-veining another raw pepper. He hated raw peppers, but Bones liked them, so whatever. "They've got a time bank at work and a bunch of people put time in, so I've actually got more than enough to last until you go back to the lab."

"Oh," she said, slightly shocked. "That was nice of them."

"It was," he said. "And it's not like I'm not still pushing through bullshit paperwork. Cullen's got me working on some newbie agent training manual the Director told him to get together."

"Oh," she responded again. "When?"

"While you're napping," he said, dumping the peppers into the bowl. There was more lettuce in there for one dinner than he'd prefer to eat in a month. She knew he'd been using her computer to check in occasionally at work, but he hadn't mentioned he was actually working, too. For all his cockiness, Booth was a little too modest sometimes. They wouldn't ask just anyone to help decide what new agents should be taught.

"Here," he said. "Chop this cauliflower, will you? Though how you can eat that stuff raw is beyond me." He made Parker's "yuck" face at her, then kissed the still-puzzled look off her face.


	13. Chapter 13

Angela and Jack made regular visits to Booth's place while Brennan was recovering, sometimes stopping by with takeout for supper, always calling first to let Booth know. He never said no. On Sundays, Angela would keep Brennan company with coffee and pastries while Booth and Parker went to Mass, and into the afternoon while the Booth boys did something strenuous.

The fourth Sunday she was home, Brennan and Angela went out to brunch, Brennan ironically and yet also legitimately proud of herself for driving, and managing to get in and out of her low slung sports car without too much discomfort—so long as she moved carefully. Angela, too, was both worried for and proud of her friend—worried to see her so clearly uncomfortable and still less strong than Angela had ever seen her before, and proud, for how she seemed to have come to accept the need to pay more heed to herself, and to accept help from others. At the same time, she couldn't be happy that Brennan had to go through it at all. And she and Bren hadn't really had time to discuss, well, _anything_ except the few times after she got back from the hospital the first time, when Angela had helped Bren with the "female stuff" they both agreed Booth should be spared dealing with.

Angela sipped at her mimosa while Brennan worked on her coffee and juice. Not that Bren was much of a drinker any time, but Ange supposed she shouldn't drink while she was still on those painkillers. She took the time to appraise Bren as she ate, lit by the sunlight coming in the window where they were seated. Her color was finally improving—she'd looked translucent before, though Angela would have sworn it was impossible until Brennan was injured. She'd lost a little weight, but not more than when Booth was "dead," and she'd put that back on fairly quickly, the last time. She knew Booth was stuffing Bren with food now, too. Angela heaved a little inward sigh of relief.

"Do I pass inspection?" Brennan said as she looked up from her frittata, shooting Angela a wry half-grin.

Angela smiled in response. "Yeah, Bren, you'll do."

Brennan smiled more fully in response, and waited for Angela to ask whatever was on her mind. Angela, meanwhile, was struck by the continuing openness in her friend's face. She'd seen Bren visibly display more irony, sarcasm, bitterness, grief, humor, patience, and love since Booth went away on his mission than perhaps the whole time she'd known her, though Ange had always known, of course, that those things were there under Brennan's stoic outward persona.

"You seem… happy," she offered, and Brennan nodded, agreeing.

"Yes—I am, I suppose." She thought about it, and tried to form her thoughts aloud, rather than shut Angela out until she'd decided exactly what she felt and how much she was willing to say about it. She supposed this came with trying to be in touch with one's emotions. This was far harder than astrophysics. "It's not been easy, of course, physically, and I wish I could do more, but, well, things are good with Booth."

"Have you guys discussed what comes next?" Angela asked, wondering if Brennan would answer. The "old" Brennan wouldn't, but now she wondered.

Bren nodded slightly. "Well, not directly, but he mentioned that we would probably move in together to his parents a week ago, and I didn't run screaming in panic out of the house, or call you to come get me and tell me what to do, so I guess we'll probably do it." She had a slight twist at the edge of her mouth, and Angela burst out laughing at her friend's accurate depiction of how she once might have responded.

"Your place? Or his? Or someplace new?"

Brennan made a face Angela didn't like the look of. "Well, my place will be a bit of a problem. I think he's afraid to go back there, which is ironic because I could hardly keep him from popping in on me all time before. But… well, he had to go get some things for me that day with Caroline, and he …"

Brennan hesitated. She wasn't sure if it was appropriate to be discussing Booth this way, but at the same time, she hadn't quite figured out on her own how to approach the problem. And Angela did have discretion, when it mattered. Deciding, Brennan continued.

"He was sweating like he'd run a race when he came back, and I think he brushed his teeth. He vomited that first night, when he thought… well, I just, I can't have him vomiting every time he goes to my place, and even if we moved in together someplace else, he's still going to have to spend some there in the meantime. And… he hasn't made any move to … well, it's like I'm fourteen all over again. Clothes on, wonderful kisses, lots of snuggling. That's it. Not that I'm supposed to yet, but still."

Angela's expression turned sympathetic. "Poor Booth. He probably still blames himself."

Brennan nodded, her look serious. "He's the only person I know, besides me, who represses things so much that when he lets go, it's a violent release of emotion. He… looked like he was either going to heave or faint the first time he caught glimpse of the dressings on my stomach. He still gets this look like… well, I'm not sure what, but he's not getting used to it, much. Which he's going to have to. The stitches are almost all dissolved, and I'm going to have scars."

Angela thought for a moment, before responding. "Well, Bren, the first time he spends any significant time away from you, and something happens where he couldn't just shoot someone or ride in to rescue you. There was literally nothing he could do to help you. I don't think I've ever seen him so… scared. And to have a constant, visible reminder of that?" She trailed off, thinking again of how Booth, of course, showed "scared" by looking grey and scared for a minute before turning utterly grim as he burst into activity, getting in doctors' faces and watching over Bren so vigilantly that "eagle eyes" didn't begin to describe it.

Angela's words, coupled with the phrase "_Ride in to rescue you_," brought a flash of memory to Brennan. She heard Booth's voice saying "_When Sir Seeley came back, after borrowing a really fast horse when he heard that his princess was hurt, he was horrified to find out how bad it actually was_…." The rest of the memory was fuzzy, but it fit with the dreams she kept having. Perhaps it had something to do with that story she still couldn't remember.

"Earth to Brennan… Bren?" Angela asked. Brennan had gazed off as Angela tried to offer her insight, then jerked back to attention at Angela's words.

"Sorry," she said. "Just remembering part of something I think I forgot." She shook her head, and returned Angela's gaze. "I … you're right. But… there's no way to say I wouldn't get hurt at work sometime in the future, and I don't get the feeling he's going to try to be so alpha-male as to try to stop me from coming back out in the field when I'm cleared. There's something else, too."

"Maybe he's afraid that at some point you'll decide it's all too much to deal with, and throw him over?"

"I don't know what that means," Brennan said, looking puzzled.

Ange stifled her laugh—things were too serious to laugh out loud, right now, but still-- it was good to have blunt Brennan back. "It means that I think he's probably afraid that at some point you'll come to be angry at him for what happened, or get so afraid of a repeat that you'll push him away. Bren—he waited a long time for you, and then it didn't happen the way he planned it, if he planned it at all. He's probably terrified. I mean, he's as much a control freak as you are."

Bren shook her head, sadly. "He shouldn't be terrified. I told him I wouldn't trade him, no matter what. Even if something like this happened again…" She trailed off. What Angela said made sense, even as she'd tried to offer Booth every assurance she could. She wasn't good with romantic expressions of love. She'd tried to be straightforward, and tell him she loved him every day, but he was still insecure. Well, she didn't need to invade his privacy more about that with Angela than she already had. While Booth hadn't talked too much about his life before Brennan, the pieces she knew about, and what she could reasonably fill in added up to someone who didn't tell most people dark secrets—like Brennan herself. As different as they were, there was a lot that was similar, too.

Ange felt tears pricking her eyes. The expression on Bren's face was determined, and sad, and softened with love when she said "_I wouldn't trade him_," and she knew her friend meant it. "Well, then, you'll just have to keep telling him until he believes it," she said, echoing again the words that she'd said to Booth back in the hospital bathroom, almost five weeks ago now. The expression on Bren's face since she got out of the hospital—relieved, far less guilty-- and her words the past few weeks and today made her confident that Booth had taken her advice to heart. Now if he'd just believe Bren when she told him that she was okay, so he could be, too.

* * * * * *

When she got home from brunch, and before Booth and Parker returned from the boy's T-ball game, Brennan reflected some more. She and Booth shared his bed every night, and their already high level of physical contact only escalated. Each found it easier to breathe when the other was in the same room, or even better, touching. The first time Brennan came home, she'd been too sore and emotionally miserable to want more than comfort and contact, and by the way Booth had reacted when he saw her dressings that first time, she expected he felt the same way. It wasn't sexual—they were just making sure of the other. She didn't know at this point who was holding on to who—maybe both of them. Brennan didn't want to push Booth away when he cuddled and coddled and kissed her. She'd wanted to do nothing more than hold on to him and never let go when she'd first seen him after his death. She could hardly deny him the same feelings—and she wanted him holding her, anyway.

But she also knew he would be happy to hibernate at his place until they went back to work, and hardly set foot out of the house. For the first time in her life, she might almost be willing to, but they couldn't, and in the end, her own restless mind made it impossible to stay put completely. She was trying to concentrate on paying attention to her body, though—hence the "eating" adventures. Each bit of out-of-the-house mental stimulation needed to be traded off with some fattening food eaten, another nap taken, another slow movement so she didn't jar herself, though that was lessening almost every day, now. She felt weaker than she'd been in a long time, and almost dreaded the aerobic and strength training she would need to get back in condition. It would be a race from when she was "lab cleared" to "field cleared" to see if she could recover her stamina and strength.

The conscious attention Brennan was trying to bring to her body, so that she knew her breaking point before she passed it—it was emotionally exhausting. She'd spent years telling herself and everyone around her that she could bear anything, alone—simply because she had to. She made it a point of pride, and not pathos. The loving Booth part, and admitting it, and telling him? Well, their joining had compelled the conclusion that of course she loved him, a conclusion she'd been trying to ignore for some time. That part was easy. Admitting she was human in other ways was far more difficult. She was glad, at least, that she'd already been in the habit of putting up with Booth's coddling and nagging. Now that she needed it, though less now than before, she could sometimes pretend to herself that she was humoring him, rather than meeting an actual need. She knew it wasn't true, but admitting she had weaknesses she had to consider was hard to do every day. She figured she'd practice every-other-day-- Booth would nag her the rest of the time.

But now, as she began to feel better, and tried to step up their level of contact, it was as if Booth was afraid. He still handled her as if she were made of glass—back when they were partners, he'd certainly never handled her roughly, but he'd never been so cautious and deliberate, either. Rather, he'd treated her as if she could take care of herself, mostly, and yet he wasn't afraid to push her around a bit if he thought she was being unnecessarily stubborn. He'd certainly half-hauled her, arms around her shoulders out of the lab and off to the diner. But now, she really was healing, and yet he was still handling her so gently. Too gently. Brennan snorted to herself. Most women would love it if someone as physically imposing as Booth turned out to be a big, gentle pussycat, but she just wanted her Booth back, from before. She'd hoped that his learning that she bruised easily, but remained unharmed would have settled some of this, but apparently not. She was more fragile than usual, but not as badly as he still seemed to think.

She put together some things for Booth and Parker to nibble on when they got home, mid-afternoon. To Booth's disgust, she'd discovered that Parker liked hummus, and would eat lots of it with carrot and celery sticks. "Bones, Booth boys don't eat vegetables. Next thing I know he'll be asking for a scientific calculator for Christmas," he'd complained, the first time he saw Parker climb up next to her on the counter to grab a carrot stick and drag it through the dip. She understood that Booth might have a distaste for Middle Eastern food, given his Army experiences, and made sure there were cookies and other "American" food out too, but so far, Parker'd been fairly ecumenical in trying things "Dr. Bones" liked. The door opened then, and Parker burst in, yelling "Bones! I hit a home run!" She turned and knelt down, smiling and slightly bracing herself as the boy hurtled toward her to give her the kind of enthusiastic hug he'd bestowed on her while Booth was gone. Booth was only just inside the door when she caught him, and had a look of horror on his face even as he yelled "Parker, don't!" Brennan, however, had already caught the boy and was hugging him back.

"Booth," she said calmly over Parker's shoulder, "I'm fine. Really." He'd turned white as a sheet, his hand still on the doorknob, while she finished hugging his son, and let go, squatting back to look at him. "Tell me all about it," she said, then pushed herself up to standing without any real discomfort at all. "Here," she said, continuing to ignore Booth after giving him that one reassurance, "climb on up and have a snack while you tell me."

Parker was a Booth, so given the excuse for a snack, he readily took the suggestion, and pulled himself up onto the stool at the island, dipping in to the hummus with a celery stick with alacrity. Halfway through chewing, he started to tell her all about his day, mouth half full, and Brennan laughed at his excitement to recount his home run. She wondered if that meant he'd hit the ball further than ten feet—it was T-Ball. "Parker, that's gross. Tell me after you finish chewing and swallowing," she instructed, then scooped up some dip with a carrot herself. She could hear Booth closing the door behind her, and slowly putting his things on the table inside the door, as Parker related his prowess at T-Ball. Booth eventually came over, more slowly than she'd have expected, and laid his hand between her shoulders as he came to stand behind her. His hand was shaking, so she turned to look up at him over her shoulder. He was pale, still, and actually sweating, but she didn't want to call his reaction to Parker's attention, so she leaned back into him instead, and drew his other hand up to rest on top of her shoulder, where she could turn and kiss it. His fingers reflexively closed on her when she did it, so she repeated herself, and pushed back a little more into him.

Parker, meanwhile, had eaten another celery stick and a carrot, and was making eyes at the plate of cookies Brennan had also placed out on the counter. "Can I have a cookie, Bones?" he asked, making the same puppy dog eyes as his father. "I had two celerys and a carrot," he boasted.

Brennan smiled. "Well, then that clearly means two cookies, maybe three. What do you think, Booth?"

He responded to the prompt, sounding only somewhat forced. "Two, I think. It's not long before supper, and Parks wanted to go out for spaghetti and meatballs."

"Well, then, two cookies it is, and your Dad can have four cookies, too. He wouldn't want to spoil his supper, either."

Parker made a face. "How come Dad gets four cookies and I only get two?"

Booth responded this time for himself. "I'm bigger than you, Bub. That's just the way it works. Sorry." It had been ten minutes, now, since his son had tackled his Bones, and she seemed fine, so far. Not bleeding. Or passing out. Or practically dying again. He swallowed the urge to vomit, and had a cookie, instead. Bones kissed his hand on her shoulder again as he leaned over her, and he let out a ragged exhale.

*************

They were quiet in the car after dropping off Parker, as Brennan reflected that she'd let Booth hold on to this particular bandaid too long—the wound he'd suffered, watching her be hurt, and then hurt again, wasn't healing. His fear for her physical safety, already subject to his overdeveloped alpha-male urges, had only gotten worse. If he kept up at this rate, he'd vomit if she got so much as a papercut. It was going to be painful for both of them—she just wasn't as good at the "poking and prodding" as he was. But she had to get started, or it would just take longer to heal. If it ever did.

She held his hand as he drove, content to let him be silent, and ignoring the "_is she still here_" glances he kept sending her way. She'd allowed him a "Not so rough with Bones, okay, Bub?" when Parker went to give her an equally enthusiastic hug goodnight, but amended his comment by telling his boy with a wink, "Almost all better, and then I can give you more airplane rides, okay?" Booth could hardly contradict her in front of his son.

When they got in, she helped him tidy up, doing the measured bending and twisting she'd been doing the last half week, and satisfying herself and hopefully Booth that she was fine. She hadn't napped during the day, though she'd rested after Angela dropped her off, curling up with a book for two hours before she got up to make Parker and Booth their snacks. She decided she was tired, and headed back to the bedroom to change her clothes and her dressings for the night. She left the bathroom door open as she took off her shirt and her bra, then removed the bandages and inspected the stitches, though she knew they were fine. She half hoped Booth would follow her back, as he sometimes did when she went early to bed, and he actually did—then stopped short in the open bathroom doorway, realizing too late that Brennan was in there, half naked.

"Come here," she said gently but firmly, watching him pale as he took in the uncovered incisions. He seemed stuck in place, so she said again, "Seeley, come here." He shook his head, and did as she asked, coming to a halt before her. She took hold of his hand, and pressed it over the longer of the two mostly-healed wounds. "Feel. Dry, intact, no stretching, no tearing. I'm fine, Booth. Really." He flinched when his palm covered the stripe of pink, cross-stitched flesh, but she was right, she was fine. It wasn't as if he hadn't borne longer slashes and stitches himself. It still made him sick to his stomach, though, at the sight of those two stripes marring her otherwise almost blemish-free skin—though it was the fact that they meant he'd almost lost her rather than the fact they would scar that bothered him. God knows, he had plenty of scars, but Bones didn't mind. He guessed she was ripping off bandaids for him again.

He removed his hand from under hers, and gathered her into his arms, feeling the warm silk skin of her back under his hands. He let out another ragged exhale. Seems like today wasn't his day for normal breathing. She squeezed him, then let go, pulling him down for a kiss. Breaking off, she said mildly, a sympathetic look in her eye, "You can hand me that gauze, ointment and tape behind you." He stifled a wince. More bandaid removal—but she was right. He inhaled, and then grabbed hold of the other end of the bandaid himself.

"I'll do it," he said, then squeezed out some ointment onto his finger, and bent to smear it gently over the longer of the two soon-to-be-scars. Bones kissed the back of his neck, gently, and the hairs that had risen there started to settle again, under the soft press of her lips. Ripping off more bandaids.


	14. Chapter 14

Booth woke in the middle of the night, restless after having successfully managed to help Bones reapply her bandages without fainting or puking or bursting into tears, and made his way to the living room, flicking the TV onto low simply as background noise while he thought. Bones had pulled him again into a tight, close embrace after he'd finished dressing the incisions and taping down the gauze, and they'd stood there, long moments, while he breathed in her scent and her warmth. He yearned for, but suppressed, the desire to run his hands all over the silk of her skin again. She was in no shape for that, yet, and Booth knew he was on emotional tenterhooks anyway. The memory of her collapsing on the sidewalk in front of the Hoover, her color literally draining as blood started soaking through her clothes was more than enough to allow him to tamp down the desire to do more than feel her skin under his hands. If he'd just worked faster on the McFadden assignment, pushed them to move the raid date up even three days—he would have been home, could have insisted on accompanying Bones and Turner on the apprehension, could have stopped her from being hurt.

He'd lain down with her after she put on a fresh pair of flannel pyjamas, and relished the warm soft feel of her against him as her body and breathing relaxed into sleep. She did fit his body like a missing piece—and he loved the way she looked so much younger, less troubled, more open than during the daytime. Although, these days, Bones was practically a wellspring of personal expression, compared to how she used to be. These days, it was all he could do to keep up with her. She was still healing physically, yes, but she'd changed so much from when he left-- now he was more than a little off balance.

She'd always been more open with him than anyone else, and of course he'd worked his ass off to get to that point. He hadn't intended it as part of any master plan to make Bones fall in love with him—he just thought she needed to stop holding on so tightly to things, to release some of the grief and old hurts she couldn't do anything about anyway. Holding on to something like that made no sense—it just weighed you down and held you back. Releasing it let you move forward—not that he'd ever been good at taking that piece of advice, but still, he knew it intellectually, even as he found it impossible to apply to himself.

But Bones? She kept thinking she had no one to share sad or unhappy or angry things with, and it just wasn't true. It took him a while to convince her, and he was almost as happy when she started talking more to Angela as when she confided in him, or just let him convince her to tell him what was bothering her. The same thing happened when she was happy—it was like she was afraid to tell people she was happy, that they would do something to take it away from her. At least Booth had come to believe he was allowed to be happy, even if not completely so— his moments with Parker, his friendship with Bones were proof of that. At some point, though, somebody must have convinced Bones she didn't deserve to be happy, or that she wouldn't be allowed—it took him a long time to start earning those gorgeous slow smiles of hers in response to something silly he'd done.

And then everything had slammed into overdrive, all at once.

Booth thought back about those last six months. First, he was shot and "died," and Bones showed more anger than he'd ever seen in their whole time working together when she pounded him—though he could tell in the two seconds before her fist hit his jaw that she didn't know, and a part of him said "stand still and take it like a man." He never thought she'd lay him out flat like that, though—the more fool him. Then Zach happened, and she actually let him take her home and sit on the couch with her while they split a bottle of whiskey and Bones silently leaked tears into her glass and onto his shoulder. He just kept looking out the window, refilling her glass, and handing her tissues. They never discussed it again, after that—but contrary to what he had worried about, it was like the two events forced Bones out of her shell. She brought in bagels and doughnuts for the team, started complimenting him more, risked a few jokes around people who knew her and her squint sense of humor less well. She smiled more in general, but smiled most at him, and those little touches when he was upset slowly increased, even as she still playfully whacked him when he was playing the alpha male. And then that case, and that night, and everything that had come since then.

He'd wanted her practically forever, he'd known it pretty much since he set eyes on her, but he'd convinced himself after Epps that it was too dangerous for them to get involved, or for people to even think it. That "just partners" thing hadn't stopped Pam Nunan, who saw what Booth had been trying to pretend wasn't the truth for a long time—that he didn't just want Bones, but loved her, and couldn't imagine living without her. Those two weeks of not talking with her, much less seeing her and breathing the same air that she did were torture, and even as she took him down with that right hook, a part of his beleaguered, besotted brain was saying, "_God, can she punch, no wonder I love her_."

Since he'd left and come back, though, it was like Bones had skipped straight from baby steps to leaps and bounds. She was wry and self-deprecating with friends and colleagues, less afraid to show sadness or smile at her own or someone else's joke. Turner outright doted on her, Cullen didn't say a peep about the change in their relationship and smiled goofily while Bones made small jokes during his hospital visit, and Rebecca liked her enough to allow him extra time with his son, who also seemed to adore her. Cam laughed, still surprised, at her jokes. Bones teased Jack and Angela back, rather than blushing or retreating when they twitted her about Booth. Sweets had abandoned all pretense of headshrinking them, and instead treated Bones like the potential intellectual mentor she could be to him.

She was also more physically affectionate with him than he'd ever thought she might be, even in his most delirious fantasies—even then, things had progressed in his mind along the lines of "Bones putting up with me kissing the daylights out of her," rather than "Bones giving me unsolicited kisses and hugs lots of the time, and smiling at me, and snuggling into me in bed or on the couch." He'd always known she was emotionally reserved, and accepted it as part of who she was-- he'd never expected her to give so much of that up, and to express as much as she had, even to him.

He was more relieved than he could ever express out loud that she seemed to have stopped blaming herself for losing the baby, for not noticing that she was pregnant. He was also more sad and yet proud for the fact that she was bringing more conscious attention to her own body. Again, he wondered what had happened at some point to make her think the best path was to ignore her own physical needs for sleep and for food. It wasn't an eating or body image disorder, not the way he'd known other women—it was more like she only believed in her brain, and not in her body—as if it was just some kind of tether, rather than a home. What had made her dissociate like that? He wasn't sure he wanted to know, but he didn't think it had been sexual, since certainly if it had she wouldn't have been as accepting of what she termed their "catharsis."

He still had a hard time thinking about it. Bones was right. He was too much of a romantic. He believed her when she said she needed it, too, and he was starting to be able to actually think about what had happened, rather than squash flat and suppress, so he wouldn't vomit wherever he was. He knew now, believed her, that the entire thing was consensual—but it still bothered him. As violent as the rest of his life had been, as violent as he was still capable of being, he'd never been so rough when he was with a woman ever before. He saved his violent emotional outflows for workouts, or bar fights back when he was in the Army, or gambling back when he was trying to get over the feeling of being a killing machine, but that deep potential for rage—it had always been a part of him, even before he went into the Army. Football and other sports had helped burn off the emotional energy in high school—as much as he'd been a typical jock, there was a part of him even that knew the usual mores of high school were bullshit, though he tried to ignore it. He could usually channel it into something productive these days, though it played no small part in the hours he kept at work. He wasn't running on empty—he was running on anger at how unjust the world was, how horrible people could be. He could usually focus on an outcome, force himself to be satisfied with making sure that the cases against their criminals were airtight. But sometimes, even as much as he really did hate killing, the urge to immediately rid the world of someone for whom there would be no rehabilitation, no remorse, was overwhelming, and the rage would threaten to drag him under.

If he hadn't gone to Bones' apartment that night, he would have gone for a ten mile run, or worked out at the Hoover's gym on the punching bag until he broke the laces on his gloves-- something that might seem like an insane amount of energy to someone who didn't know him. But Booth could and would go until he dropped, the energy and the anger keeping him going until it snuffed out, all at once. It was what had let him hold out so long those two times he was taken—he was more scared than he'd been in his life, but he'd been furious, too, the whole time, determined not to say anything. The rage got him through until his squad came to get him.

That night, though, he'd ended up at her place, half in a daze, his only real thought that she had made him stop, earlier, from letting the rage pull him under, and that maybe she could make it go away if he saw her again. The fact that she'd accepted his bald declaration of what he'd wanted to do, and equaled his own anger in her own way really was a comfort, if one that would horrify most other people. But Bones wasn't most other people, which was why, of course, he adored her—though he'd been so busy before that point trying to suppress his own feelings for her that he hadn't noticed the subtle signs that she might possibly return them.

It still hurt, though, that he'd lost his control so completely, and he mourned the fact that he lost the chance to really woo Bones the way he'd wanted to, in addition to the still-fresh horror of seeing her so hurt, and not being able to do a damned thing about it. Bones, of course, would probably tell him she didn't need wooing, but that wasn't the point. It wasn't whether she needed it—it was whether she deserved it, and she did. She deserved to have nice things done for her, and to have someone take the time to make sure she knew it.

Of course, he remembered almost every single second of the night, now, from the moment she caressed his face and told him they'd work around the unfairness of it all, until the point at which he'd woken, believing that she might think the worst. She _had_ reached for him, _had_ clung to him and kissed him back, _had_ called his name and responded to him time and again, even as his transformed rage kept driving him to try to drown himself in her. He'd fit in her, felt her pulling him in, not just bodily, either—she took him in to her core, to her arms, wrapped herself around him physically—but emotionally, she'd called to him, and responded to his touch like he was made for her too. But it hadn't been pleasant, just desperate, and the violent emotion and forceful, intense physical exertion was not what he'd wanted or what she deserved. And of course, he still wanted her, physically, more than every woman he'd ever dated, combined. He just wasn't quite able to think beyond that point yet.

Instead, they'd pushed right over the edge from partnership to lost parenthood, and he needed, to find out if there was a way to go back to those points in between that they'd missed, to inject a little romance, a little more "taking things slow" into the start of their relationship. If there wasn't? Well, Bones had already said it was okay—but Booth needed it, even if she didn't. He'd waited so long for her, regardless of how many times he tried to talk himself out of it, and the relative speed at which things changed had his head spinning.

He stared at the TV for a few moments, tired again at having thought himself out. He clicked off the TV and made his quiet way back in the dark to the bedroom—old habits about how to move in the dark didn't die off, just because he didn't need them in his own house. When he slid in behind Bones, wrapping his arms again around her, she sighed and snuggled back into him, her head coming to rest under his chin.

He noted with irony that it was perhaps the bravest thing he'd ever done to slide his hands under her shirt, and let his hands come to rest over the bare skin of her stomach. One edge of the tape tickled his fingers, but this time, there was no urge to vomit, and the contact of his hands on her warm silken skin caused Bones to sigh and snuggle in to him further—a tangible reward for ripping off that particular bandaid.


	15. Chapter 15

Booth woke later than he'd intended to, Bones still snuggled into him. He'd never imagined she'd be a snuggler, but wildest dreams and worst nightmares seemed to both be possible these days. He prayed the worst nightmares part of things were over. Rather than disturb and wake her, he decided to lie still, his mind turning over more thoughts he'd been avoiding, and now knew he couldn't. Bones was rubbing off on him-- seemed like he had a hard time stopping thinking, once he started. They'd both be back at work, soon enough, and while things were far better, he was still in some shock about everything that had happened. He knew it would just mess things up if he hadn't at least thought more about it before people started getting murdered on their watch again.

Thoughts of praying the worst was over led Booth to thoughts about church-- and inevitably, his parents. He had gone to confession once since he came back, and discussed McFadden, but he'd hadn't confessed any of the specifics with Bones, aside from the wish to kill the two brothers who'd started it all, and the doctor who'd continued the cascade of calamities, only vaguely because Bones had been "seriously hurt." He knew why he'd hesitated to say more. He had plenty of guilt for not being around to protect Bones-- but that wasn't the same as feeling guilty about their relationship, or what had happened between them.

Though he knew church doctrine said he was "living in sin," and that their lost child was a product of sin, he couldn't believe it. He'd felt guilty, the first time with Rebecca, but that was erased when Parker was born. How could something so amazing be wrong? Likewise, he couldn't bring himself to believe that anything having to do with Bones was sinful-- if he loved her, and she loved him, the technicalities of their relationship shouldn't matter. That didn't mean he didn't want to marry her-- he was still a traditionalist, even as he'd come to see Bones' point that what other people thought shouldn't matter. But he was increasingly finding it hard to believe that a higher authority than his priest and his parish would think that their relationship was wrong, or that what had happened was somehow deserved, just because he didn't adhere to the letter of church law.

At least this time, his parents kept their mouths shut when he said he was planning on moving in with Bones-- though of course, he hadn't told them about the baby. He didn't know if he would, either-- he'd let Bones decide that. It was none of their business, and it had been years since he'd been on more than _pro forma_ grounds with them. They'd never forgiven him for not providing a "legitimate" grandson, and only cursorily acknowledged Parker's existence.

Booth sometimes thought that it was only the fact that he brought Parker to Mass that made them willing to discuss Parker at all. He only still spoke with them, he supposed, from some weird sense of duty. They'd made it clear he was a continuing disappointment, first for enlisting rather than going the officer's route, then for the gambling that came out of not being able to deal with the things he'd seen, then Rebecca and Parker.

He was glad for small favors-- he'd never borrowed money from them. Sure, he'd lost everything else, and his credit still sucked, but it was a small point of pride that the only money he'd ever lost was his own. The way they were horrified when he got kicked out of his third apartment because he couldn't make rent, and the way, beforehand, they dismissed his experiences as something "he'd get over sooner rather than later," made it hard to trust them too far, if at all. He'd been happy, as a kid, most of the time. It was only when he got to the Army that he fully realized what a narrow little world he'd been living in, even as he must have suspected it, subconsciously, when he enlisted rather than followed the family's officer route. So he'd picked himself up, mostly, and kept going when his family made no real effort to understand. His buddies understood somewhat, but most of them still were trying to escape their ghosts, and didn't always succeed. He'd gotten lucky-- he met Bones.

He'd really disliked her, that first case. Blunt. Abrasive. Arrogant. Dismissive. Gorgeous. Magnetic-- because she told him the unflinching truth, as she knew it. She didn't try to gussy things up or tell polite lies or ignore evidence important to a larger result. As much as she avoided her own feelings, she'd always been relentless in digging out the information that mattered. Of course, over time, they'd both warmed up to each other, and the rest was history, but two things always remained the same. Bones cared about the truth, and respected your privacy. If you didn't feel like talking, she wouldn't ask, and she would leave you alone unless it really mattered. Like now. How not funny at all, now, that their roles were reversed.

Just then, Bones shifted in his arms, and he gazed at her sleeping, unguarded expression. She still got self-conscious when she caught him staring at her, and had blushed, of all things, when he'd said, "you're too gorgeous not to look at all day." She was looking worlds better, and hardly needed most of her pills at all, anymore, though they still had her on iron and steroids. It had been days since he'd seen her wince in real discomfort, even as he'd practically fainted when Parker hurtled himself right at her yesterday. She had another doctor's appointment today, and he expected they'd clear her to return to work in two weeks, maybe less. Not that she'd be out in the field right away, at least not for more than recoveries. They'd discussed that, at least, and surprisingly, she was the one to acknowledge that she needed to get back into shape, rather than him having to tell her to take it easy. She was really paying attention to herself, these days, but the reasons why hurt his heart.

She mumbled a little as she shifted some more-- Booth thought it endearing. Of course, she didn't snore, or drool, or even hog the bed like most other people. Mumbling in her sleep was about as un-perfect as she got. Unlike him. She'd poked him, teasingly, after they woke the morning after she first came home, and said "Good thing for painkillers. You snore like a gorilla."

He'd been up for it, glad for the laughter. "Why, Bones? You in the habit of sleeping with gorillas? Anything else I should know about?" She'd just stuck out her tongue, then responded when he kissed her. Everything else aside, at least she still provoked the hell out of him. He would have hated for them to lose their regular banter. Her snarky remarks and teasing smiles were part of the reason he fell in love with her in the first place. Most women flirted outrageously, or simpered. Bones challenged him, kept him on his toes.

Finally, though, Bones shifted a last time, then started waking. He'd made it a study, these last few weeks, watching her wake. First she'd shift a few times, mumbling nothing intelligible. Then, she'd smile a small little smile before she was really awake, and shift her bottom a little into his hips-- fine-- his morning hard on, only made worse by Bones' presence. Not that he minded, except that the thought of making love to her still made him nauseous with the possibilities of her getting hurt again. He knew it was crazy, but knowing and accepting were two different things.

Then, she'd start to stretch, slowly waking, that little smile shifting to more conscious sobriety, as she opened those guileless blue eyes and started taking things in almost instantly. After knowing her all this time, he could hear her gears whirring, and while of course he loved her because she was brilliant, he loved seeing her in the moments when she turned her brain off. Like when she was sleeping, or lying against him and letting him pet her hair while they watched the news-- or when Parker fell asleep, half on her lap, a week ago, and he could tell she was thinking of nothing as she combed his blonde curls away from his face.

"Are you watching me sleep again?" she mumbled, her eyes still closed.

He chuckled. "Yep. Busted. What are you going to do about it?"

She cracked an eye, then looked up at him as she opened both eyes to see him reclining, half-braced on his elbow, looking down at her. She smiled slyly at him. "Well, I was going to make you an organic bacon cheeseburger deluxe tonight, but perhaps now I won't."

He laughed at her coy expression. "Drat, I was hoping you'd make french fries and pie, too."

She snorted, and shook her head at his insatiable appetite. She'd seen him put away more food in the last month than she'd ever seen any man she'd dated eat, altogether. "Well, I don't know about fries, but what flavor pie? We'll pick up some groceries on the way home from the doctor's."

"Bones, I was just kidding," he said.

"I wasn't," she replied, reaching up with her arm to pull him down for a kiss. "I make lousy pie crusts, though," she continued, murmuring against his lips after they broke the kiss.

"I don't believe it," he smiled in return. "Temperance Brennan, bad at something?"

She snorted, rolled to her side facing away from him, and pushed up to standing. "There are several other things I'm not good at, believe it or not. But I'm not going to tell you what they are. You'll have to simply dread finding out at the least opportune moment." With that, she screwed up her face and stuck her tongue out at him.

He followed her out of the bed, and pulled her into a hug, chuckling at her playful mood and her hoity-toity phraseology. Trust Bones to use a ten-dollar word when there was a simpler one, even when she was joking around. But he loved it-- Bones was so infrequently silly, even with him. They stood there long moments as he held her, enjoying her curves, until his morning erection twinged strongly between them where she was pressed up against him. She looked up at him with a twinkle in her eye, pulled back from the hug, and grasped him lightly, stroking him once through his pants before patting him and saying, "That, however, is not one of the things I'm no good at." His jaw was still hanging open as she laughed at him and sauntered off to the kitchen, saying, "I'll make some coffee while you grab your shower."

Brennan was chuckling at her sneak attack on Booth while she measured the coffee when she heard the shower engage. She was sure that if things had turned out otherwise, Booth would have had no compunction about fondling her and more every chance that they got. Circumstances being what they were, she was sure he was determined to suppress his urges-- something she didn't want, and which wouldn't be healthy for either of them. She had no intention of not having an active sex life with Booth as soon as possible, and if she had to decondition him from whatever he'd been suppressing to get to that end, well, she would start with little surprise touches he wouldn't have time to anticipate, much less suppress his response to. She had another two weeks to get him used to the idea. She planned on using almost every minute of it, one way or the other. It wasn't that she wanted him so wound up that he wouldn't be able to help responding once she was cleared, that wasn't healthy either-- it was just that she wanted him to have no doubt in her mind that she wanted him, often, and soon, and that it wouldn't hurt her.

Coffee started, she debated. Booth took long showers, and tended to use all the hot water if allowed. She'd already bawled him out several times for leaving her only lukewarm water. Deciding, she went back to the bedroom, undressed quietly, removed her dressings and threw them in the trash before she pushed the bathroom door open a crack and stepped in. He was humming, tunelessly, under the shower, his back to her, as she parted the curtain and stepped in, still not making a noise.

"Some Army Ranger you are," she said, as she circled his waist with her arms and pressed her body against his firm back, muscular buttocks and marvelous legs. The hot water spray began to mist her, around the obstacle of Booth's larger body.

He startled and yelped as she spoke, nearly yelping again as her curves pressed against him. Behind him, Brennan laughed throatily. "Jesus, Bones, give a guy a heart attack, will you?" he said, his heart pounding. He turned around to look at her and there she was, naked in all her glory except for those two scars. But her eyes were twinkling at his response, as she continued to chuckle. Her laugh, combined with the fact that she'd left him no time to freak out, as he would if he'd known what she'd had planned, caused his own body to respond unconsciously to her, and she laughed again.

"Just keeping you on your toes, Booth. And... other parts of you at attention," she said, looking down to catch his nonverbal response to her presence, before looking back up and smiling at him again. "Just doing my job," she asserted. "Plus, I wanted some hot water this morning. Hand me the shampoo, please?"

Her saucy look, combined with her ever-so-polite request for her shampoo made him laugh in response, despite himself. He handed her the shampoo-- the window of opportunity for losing his shit in anticipation of what she'd done was closed. Instead, he took the bottle back from her when she was done squeezing it out, and took over washing her hair from her. It was easy, while she was facing away from him, his view the back of her head, her gorgeous, unblemished, unhurt neck and back. One side at a time, he supposed.

- -----------------

Booth hated waiting in the waiting room for Bones to be done with her appointments. Pregnant women, expectant fathers, all of them waiting, some happily, some not, for the news of whether they were pregnant, how the baby was doing, what the next step should be. There was a fertility clinic as part of the office, and the welter of hope, fear, dread and delight in the air was thick enough to buoy you to the surface-- or drown in, depending on how you were feeling.

He didn't _have_ to wait out here. Bones told him he could come in, that she didn't mind, and that if he was feeling squeamish, he could sit on the other side of the curtain while the doctor examined her. But he felt squeamish even about that-- Bones needed to hear whatever the doctor had to tell her on her own, then decide what she was going to do with it, without his interference. Hormones, fertility, working and nonworking parts. It was complex enough, anatomically, without all the emotion added on top, and he'd had a hard enough time just keeping the anatomy straight when she first got home from the hospital. So he sat in the waiting room, even though waiting for her to come out and tell him the latest development was was its own special hell. She'd seen how uncomfortable he was, the first time, and said quietly that he could also wait in the truck, or come back when she called him, but he'd shaken his head, silently. He might not be up to sitting in the exam room with her, but he wasn't going to drop her off like a package, either.

She came out not too long after the half hour she'd planned on attending-- of course, they'd taken her late, like they always did, with everyone in here. He'd watched, these past appointments, as the overbooked office pushed through patients so quickly, the front desk staff so harried they were sometimes barely polite. Not a healthy environment for people whose emotions were already running high. They'd been gruff with Bones, once, at the start and he'd nearly bitten their heads off when her eyes welled. Thereafter, he'd insisted on being the one to go up and announce she was there, and bring back the paperwork for her to fill out. But the doctor was nice, professional, clear, and Bones seemed to like her and feel like she was getting all the information she needed. He felt bad for the couples and single women who didn't have someone to growl back at the office staff for them like Booth did-- at least he was good for that much.

Bones stopped at the desk to get another appointment card and slip it into her purse before coming out. She smiled lightly at him as he stood by his chair near the door and opened it for her, then followed her out to the elevator. Looking over her shoulder, she smiled at him more widely, now that they were out of the fraught waiting room.

"She says I'll be fine to go back to work in a week and a half with the lifting restrictions-- bending's fine, so long as I'm careful-- so I can do recoveries, so long as someone else carries the bodies. She gave me a referral to a physical therapist and trainer to use-- she actually trains at my gym, so I won't have to go someplace new."

Booth smiled at her evident excitement, though he was more cautious about Bones' jumping right back into work. "What did she say about hours?"

Bones grimaced slightly. "No more than eight hours, five days a week, for the first two weeks. She wantns me to start off with six hours, preferably. I'll have to talk to Cam and the intern. But it's better than nothing. She thinks it will be at least a month before she'll change the lifting restrictions and field work clearance, but wants to talk to the trainer before she makes any decisions."

The elevator came, then, and the partners loaded on with the other visitors to the medical building. "Well, you can do squint work at the lab, and interrogations at the Hoover, then, with no problem."

She nodded. "I don't want to push on initial interviews-- since we've sometimes ended up chasing people, and that will take me at least another month."

He snorted at her use of the word "sometimes." He'd had more initial interviews turn into suspect captures with Bones than any man had a right to. But at least she'd acknowledged she wasn't in shape for it, yet. Fighting with her about her getting hurt was the last thing he wanted right now. He just nodded, instead, leaving the rest of whatever she had to tell him until they were back in the car, or whenever she felt like talking about it. She threaded her fingers through his as they rode down in the elevator, and he stifled a jerk of surprise. Of course, they couldn't exactly be all lovey-dovey when they were at work, but he wouldn't have ever tried to hold her hand in public, anywhere, for fear she'd kick his ass. Another way she was surprising him left and right and center.

He helped her up into the car, more out of habit than anything else, then came around. When he got in, she made a grandiose gesture, and said, "To the overpriced natural food store, dear Booth. I have tofu to make you consume." He laughed out loud at the anticipatory smirk on her face. She was planning on winning her bet to make him eat tofu into the future. If her overpriced organic meat was better, well, he'd get a great burger out of it. If not, he'd lie if it tasted like sawdust, just so she'd plan meals around tasteless white bean curd that always involved him. He couldn't lose, either way.

------------------

He abandoned her at several points in the supermarket to stand, amazed, at the prices of things. "Bones, these cookies cost six dollars a box! No cookie's that good!" She snorted at him.

"Well, I don't usually buy packaged things, just fresh food. Dairy, vegetables, grains, you know."

He eyed her knowingly, a small smirk on his face. "That's not food, Bones, that's _ingredients_-- there's a big difference, you know. Food comes already cooked and ready to eat."

She snorted again. "Ah, that's the essential misunderstanding then. Here I thought it was because you were lazy, and I liked to take time to make meals prepared with love and attention. But if it's an argument about the _meaning_ of food, well, then, I suppose I can accept your divergence of opinion."

She only smacked him three or four times when he grabbed her around the waist and nuzzled her in retailiation. He loved that she smacked him, hard, in the supermarket. That was his Bones, his old Bones-- that last smack really smarted.

Booth contained his impatience as Bones spent way too much time at the meat counter, debating hormone free, free range, organic corn versus grass fed (and what the hell was "grass finished" anyway) with the butcher, who was clearly as much of an organic foods geek as Bones was. The steaks did look good, though, he admitted to himself, even as he was horrified by the prices. He supposed he'd be a vegetarian, too, if that was what they were charging for meat. At least the bacon took less time, since they only had one kind, "nitrate free, dry cured, organic feed free range bacon." Hell, the pigs had a better childhood than he did.

"Are you gonna mill the grain and bake the rolls, Bones, or are you going to deign to buy pre-prepared bakery goods?" he asked, after they left the cheese counter, where they'd bickered over Cheddar or Swiss. He wanted American, but Bones and the cheesemonger both rolled their eyes at him as Bones said "there is no such thing as natural American cheese, Booth. It's all processed."

"Cheddar, then," he retorted, then ducked down another aisle to stock up on overpriced condiments. Five dollars for ketchup? It better be the best damned ketchup on the planet. When he met up with her in the produce section again, she was inspecting each apple, squinting to detect each imperfection. Booth hung back for a moment. She'd been serious about making him pie, and bought more organic baking ingredients, including sugar. Sugar was sugar. He didn't get it. But he wasn't going to say no to Bones cooking for him. And now, she was picking up and setting aside individual apples, a slight furrow between her eyebrows as she concentrated on each Granny Smith. If he'd been Adam running into Eve in the aisle, he couldn't have seen anything more tempting than her, selecting apples for pie-- she still didn't like cooked fruit, but wanted to make pie for him.

"Whaddya say, Bones? They have enough fruit to meet your stringent requirements?" he asked, placing the overpriced ketchup, mayo, and pickles in the cart.

"Almost," she smirked, finally adding an eighth piece of fruit to the bag. "Go get yourself ice cream, I'll go find some beer. And potato chips. I am not making you fries."

He pouted. "You don't love me enough to make me french fries?"

She regarded him sternly, but her eyes were twinkling. "Of course I do. But I refuse to do it without the proper equipment and provide a substandard result. So unless you're hiding a fryolator in your basement, you'll have to make do with potato chips. Now, go get that ice cream," she said, pointing him away toward the frozen foods section.

"Yes, Bones," he saluted, and bounced off. She said she loved him enough to make french fries, given the proper equipment. Did they sell used fryolators? And would he need to install extra venting for that? Maybe you could deep fry tofu. He'd have to check.

---------------

After they got back from lunch at the diner, overpriced hamburger fixings in tow, she shooed him out to go for a run while she made pie crust. She was frowning at all the dry ingredients before she started mixing them, as if she could will them to behave. He really wanted to stay and watch, but she smacked him. "No. You only get to taste the resulting disaster, not watch it in progress. But I think the filling will be good." Her tone was uncertain, and he couldn't help but kiss the frown line on her forehead as she readied herself for something as arduous as pie crust. Three black belts, ten languages, and pastry escaped her. He loved her so much.

----------------

"So?" She watched him, expectantly, her half-eaten lentil burger on the plate in front of her.

He was too busy licking the juices off of his plate to answer immediately. It most definitely did not taste like sawdust; Bones made a damned fine bacon cheeseburger deluxe. Foo-foo ingredients apparently counted for something, after all. When he made sure the last bit of the plate was clean, the last drop of organic ketchup eradicated, he looked up, eyes twinkling. "Tofu scramble for breakfast?"

He was glad, however, that they'd never bet over pie crust. She was right-- it was terrible, both burnt and raw as the same time. He wasn't a squint, but he was pretty sure that Bones had achieved the impossible. The apple filling, however, was delicious, and Bones laughed when he peeled off the top crust, threw it in the trash, and spooned out all the filling before topping it off with a giant mound of ice cream.

"Maybe you should work your way up to pie crust, say, with a crumble," he mumbled around the cooked apples. She just stuck out her tongue, then yelped as he braced himself and pulled her, unlike a piece of glass, into his lap while he tried to feed her a spoonful of cooked fruit. She took the spoonful, despite her continuing distaste. He'd treated her like herself, not an ornament.

----------------

Brennan sighed, half waking, as he settled in bed behind her later that night, his hands stealing up under her shirt to rest this time without hesitation against her bare skin and light bandages. It was a good day. He'd looked at her naked, held her hand in the elevator, agreed that organic ingredients were superior, treated her like her normal, strong self, and helped with her bandages again before she went to bed-- though she was still more tired than he'd been, and he'd stayed up a few more hours before coming. "I love you," she mumbled, as his hands at her waist squeezed her tighter.

"You too, Bones, you too," came his voice, rumbling softly in her ear. "Sleep well, Princess," she heard then, drifting off as he said "You did a good job with the ghosts today."


	16. Chapter 16

_"You too, Bones, you too," _came his voice, rumbling softly in her ear. _"Sleep well, Princess," _she heard then, drifting off as he said _"You did a good job with the ghosts today."_

She was dreaming, and she knew she was dreaming, as sometimes happened, even to her, distaste for psychology notwithstanding. Booth's words, heard by her half-conscious mind, gave way to the dream, a memory, really.

In the dream, she was still in the hospital, lying on Booth's chest, as she seemed to have during most of that time. The IVs attached to her right hand were in place, the pulse oximeter, too. He was sitting beside her on the bed, to her left, and had pulled her alongside and onto him so that her head was resting at the join of his warm, solid shoulder. His left arm was resting lightly at her waist on her uninjured side, his right arm carefully placed above the line of her navel, holding her arm or her shoulder, or tracing her face on occasion. If she'd had much voluntary muscle control, she could have reached up to kiss him without any effort at all. But in the dream, she could feel the weight of her body, not dragging her down, but suspended, somehow. As if she were floating in heavy water, and was unable to move her limbs from the surface that was buoying her up. Her primary movements and sensations in her mostly-drugged state were those brought on by Booth-- if he touched her gently, or shifted her to look at her better, or the rise and fall of his chest, the slight throb she would feel echoed under her ear from his heartbeat, the soft baritone rumble of his voice in her ear.

In the dream, the rest of the room was fuzzy. It probably had been. One of the effects of the drugs seemed to have been an inability to visually focus for long, sleepiness aside. In the dream, she was still in her body, and she heard herself say "_Will you tell me a story_?"

His heart thumped hard once under her ear before he replied. "_What kind of a story_?" he asked, tipping her torso and head back slightly so she could look up at him. In her memory, the frown lines etched in his forehead, around his eyes and his mouth were deep, his eyes dark with guilt, \sadness, and more than anything else, worry for her.

"_I don't know_," she heard herself say. "_I don't know any stories_." It was true, as far as it went. Her parents tended to give them educational books, and discuss their school work with them. They played outside, went to the park, most of the usual things, but for whatever reason, storytelling was never a big part of her youth.

Booth's heart pounded hard once again under her ear before he responded huskily, a deeper look of sadness passing over his face. "_Well, how about I make one up, then_," he suggested.

She felt herself nodding, burrowing into his warmth. "_Sounds good_."

And then, Booth's voice began.

"_Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess who was also a brilliant forensic anthropologist, who helped the families in her kingdom by giving them back the treasures that they'd lost. There was also a handsome, brave knight, who rode his horse all over his kingdom chasing dragons and highwaymen that went after the people in his kingdom. Both the princess and the knight were really good at their jobs, and inclined to be a little cocky about it."_

It was strange-- bizarre, really. It was as if her brain had recorded the entire conversation, despite the fact that there were other parts of her non-lucid periods that she had little memory of. Yes, there was waking and sleeping, and lifting, and washing, and murmurs of Booth's voice in her ear or his warmth all around her, but those recollections were non-specific. She'd never made a study of the mind, might not like psychology, but she did acknowledge there were such things as flashbacks, nightmares grown out of real memories, traumas so deep that they interrupted your ability to function when waking. Perhaps her brain stored this story because she'd been feeling so raw, so guilty, so ashamed and confused beforehand. Who was to say? Perhaps the drugs had something to do with it.

The whole story unfolded, Booth's voice occasionally hitching as he described particular memories, or as she asked him questions.

"_Why do they always go to her castle, anyway?"_

Booth kissed her forehead, amusement and sad memory passing over his face all at once. She wondered, even as she was still aware that she dreamed, if he knew how mobile his face was when he thought no one was looking, or when he thought she wasn't capable of taking it in, as he would have thought that she was at the time. Through this all, he'd done what he could to keep his outward reactions subdued, suppressing the strong emotions from becoming visible. To prevent them both from becoming upset, she supposed. His voice came again. _"Well, the princess' castle is bigger and smells nicer, and anyway, the knight's noble abode had ghosts in it."_

"_Ghosts are bad." _

"_Right. So Sir Seeley and Princess Temperance had lots of adventures, and became good friends, and helped each other out, because that's what real friends do. Princess Temperance made a lot of Sir Seeley's ghosts go away, and Sir Seeley helped Princess Temperance find some of the treasure she thought she'd lost a long time ago."_

"_Did she really make the ghosts go away?" _she heard herself ask, a tone of disbelief in her voice. She didn't wonder why she responded that way-- Booth rarely, if ever, talked about how he felt. He rarely discussed his family, his Army experiences, even his gambling. And yet, the look on his face as he answered "_Definitely_," was as truthful and open as she'd ever seen, even in memory.

She wondered, all over again, how long he'd harbored feelings for her, and at what level. She'd known, back at Devon Marshall's gravesite, that his opening up to her was almost physically painful for him. He'd been trembling, minutely, under her hand. In all the time she'd been staying with him, he rarely got or made calls from social acquaintances, though she'd always assumed he had an active social life-- sports, dating, going out with people from the Bureau she'd never met and might never meet. She'd known for a while that he considered her a friend-- but she was now beginning to understand just how much of a friend he'd considered her. Those late night stops with takeout whether they had a case or not took on new meaning. She was sure he knew all along that she was lonely, but perhaps he'd been, too.

He recounted his perspective on Pam Nunan's shooting, his grief and guilt at not telling her how he felt earlier apparent in his facial expressions, then went on to begin the part of the story that began with his appearance at her apartment almost three months ago. His voice thickened and eyes glittered as he told this part of the story. His ragged exhalation and look of surprise as she said _"The princess would have told him he had to go, anyway," _surprised a look of shock and reflexive swallow from him as his eyes welled further. He paused a long moment, a world of thoughts flickering across his face so quickly that her lucid dreaming mind couldn't capture them all, other than to know that he was about to make one of those speeches that always burnt themselves into her memory when both of them were awake-- that "_making love_" speech at the diner, or that "_you don't let them win_" speech at that cafe in New Orleans. Booth might sometimes call himself "just a cop," but Brennan always thought him eloquent, when he chose to be.

In her memory, he looked tenderly at her, tracing the line of her face, before saying what she now realized she'd taken in, believing, without being conscious of doing so. Until now.

"_Anyway. While Sir Seeley was away, Princess Temperance fought a really big dragon, and he hurt the princess and stole the treasure that neither she nor Sir Seeley even knew that they'd found. And because she was so strong and brave, even though she was hurt, the princess still captured the dragon. When Sir Seeley came back, after borrowing a really fast horse when he heard that his princess was hurt, he was horrified to find out how bad it actually was, because he knew if they fought the dragon together, the princess might not have been hurt. But he also knew that even if he'd been here, neither he nor the princess could have protected a treasure they didn't know that they had, and he also knew that sometimes, dragons stole treasures from even the bravest and strongest knights and princesses. So the knight tried to concentrate on helping the princess get better, because while he was sad they'd lost their new treasure, he was more scared of losing the princess, because she was the biggest and best treasure of all. He tried to get the princess to understand that sometimes treasures got lost, or were hard to discover, for lots of different reasons, and that it wasn't her fault. See, it broke the knight's heart to think that the princess faced such a big, strong dragon without him, and did better than any other princesses could have done, combined, and yet she still thought she'd failed."_

"_Then, the dragon Princess Temperance captured tried to escape, and the princess had to fight him again. The knight tried to help, but because of the special powers the princess used the first time to capture the dragon, there wasn't a lot the knight could do except try to lend moral support. The Princess again made sure the dragon couldn't escape, but her wounds from before got worse, and she got very sick again, especially after some jealous squires from Coptopia tried to blame the princess for something that was only the dragon's fault."_

Brennan remembered it all, then, the whole rest of the story coming to her in a rush, a prescient, or deja vu-like recollection of a past memory now re-emerging before her in the dream, like she was reading the script along with a film rolling before her. Her voice asked, small, childlike, worried, "_What happened then?_"

Booth shifted her a little, looking at her with resolution and no regret on his face before he stroked her cheek and continued.

"_Well, the knight was even more scared this time, and so were the court jester, and the kings and duchesses, and some of the squires and lords and ladies in waiting. Sir Seeley didn't know what else he could do except something Princess Temperance's favorite lady in waiting told him, something he'd already tried, so he tried it again. He told the princess while she was sleeping that he loved her, and that it wasn't her fault that the dragon had stolen their treasure, and that she'd done more than any five knights and princesses together could possibly expect to have done to help the subjects of Squintland and Coptopia."_

He'd told her, the first time they saw each other again in the hospital, that it wasn't her fault, and again that first day she'd gone home, but she hadn't believed him. If it was possible to be stunned while one was in the midst of a dream, then she was, as their story-telling interaction went on, and she heard her voice, even smaller than earlier, ask "_What if the knight misses the treasure they lost and wants to replace it? What if the princess doesn't know if she's brave enough to try to find one again?_"

Booth took her chin between his fingers to make sure she was looking at him, his brown eyes fierce, moist, and utterly truthful. "_He'll still think the princess is the treasure he wants most in the world, the thing he never wants to lose, ever_."

"_He will_?"

Booth nodded, looking to her dream eye as resolute as he ever was when he determined to do something. "_Definitely. See, like I said earlier, the knight loves her more than anything because princess made the worst ghosts go away, and made the knight stronger and braver than before, because he could sleep at night again, instead of having ghosts bothering him all the time. He also loves her because the princess hates dragons and highwaymen as much as he does, and she never gives up, even when the dragons are stronger. He loves her, too, because not only is the princess incredibly smart and beautiful, but because she's really cute when she argues with the knight about whether jousting contests and traditional feasts in the kingdom are socially relevant, or whether it's healthy to eat all those smoked hams the knight likes to eat."_

He finished her story, his chest rumbling with a held-back laugh as she said "_Want m'own horse and sword_," his arms tightening around her the way that they did when he was on the verge of crying, or some other strong release of emotion.

And then Brennan woke, really woke, her eyes opened to the half-light of early morning, before the sun rose. She lay still, not willing to wake Booth as she tried to process the sudden return of the memory, unexpected tears welling as she released her hold on the fear of what she might not want to give him—might not be able to give him, issues of want notwithstanding.

Booth's breathing was quiet and deep behind her, his arms as always looped around her. He had her body pulled close, as if even in sleep he would try to protect her, shield her from anything outside the two of them that might hurt her. As if he could protect her, too, from herself, if he could. Certainly, he had while she was in hospital, holding her so she wouldn't shift too much and tear her stitches, telling her what her overborne mind and heart needed to hear. He tried to protect her, sleeping and waking-- it was the same. He was the same. He slept on as she thought, and worked to maintain her body's stillness so he could rest. He needed it as much as she did-- he was still worn, those small creases at the corners of his eyes still mostly frown rather than smile lines. She breathed in evenly around the tears of relief leaking across the bridge of her nose and down her cheek into the pillow, the wet release of a worry she could now let go of. He would stay, even if it was always just the two of them.

She vaguely remembered how drugged she'd been at the start of the second hospital stay, and recalling what she'd seen in her chart, she now had no wonder why. She was surprised, actually, that the doctors decided to go that route rather than induce a coma to minimize movement. But she'd evinced no addictive response to the sedatives during her first stay, so their decision to merely up the dosages, and have her sleep or be too drugged to be interested in leaving the bed was sensible.

She didn't like psychology. She'd hated feeling at the whim of her emotions, even as she acknowledged, intellectually, the irrefutable fact her grief, regret and personal shame. She had hated even more that her emotions were running so high, between the situation itself and the effect of the pregnancy hormones, that she needed a pill just to avoid bursting into tears for no good reason. "Emotional lability," they called it-- when something so minor, unrelated to any rational perspective, set you off. She'd had plenty of that the first go-round, regardless of the fact that the pain from the surgery made her even more labile. The consequent loss of control over her physical self was more upsetting than the original injury, in some ways. She had always maintained control of her body, since she made up her mind to, until she lost total control. The loss of her body's response to her will was still keen. But her determination to not let her mere physical needs dictate her outward actions and appearance to others had failed her, in the end-- the long, once-needed escape from present sensation become a liability when paying attention to one's own body language meant something different from what was expected by force of habit.

She supposed she should tell Booth why she hated psychology-- why she detached her mind from her physical self-- she'd never told anyone who would believe her, and besides Booth, there wouldn't be anyone she'd be willing to tell. She had good reasons, she usually did. It was recognizing when those reasons no longer obtained that was her problem. But the story of why her brain and her body were so disconnected was a short story, in the end, though it didn't make it any less true.

As an author, she knew that sometimes the starkest, most resonant truths were contained not in chapters, or paragraphs, but in a few sentences, sometimes even one perfect, evocative phrase. How would she describe it here? "_I once had a foster father who liked to beat all his children, biological and foster, and I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of flinching or crying?_" Did that describe it, adequately? She _did_ cry and flinch at the outset, complained bitterly, too, until she realized no social worker or teacher would believe her when the outwardly upstanding man made sure to only use things that didn't leave marks, and she had to find some other way to get out of there. In the meantime, she learned to send her mind elsewhere. Multiplication tables. Square roots. Bones of the body. Elements of the periodic table. U.S. Presidents. State and foreign capitals. Verb conjugations. Anything that could be told over, in memory, some rote recitation that would allow her to concentrate on something besides the pain, some set of words she could form her lips around that wasn't a "please" or a "stop" or some other useless plea. Some intellectual mantra that would allow her to think about something other than when it was going to end, or why her parents abandoned her to this-- something that kept her from feeling how much it all _hurt_, right then, right there.

Booth might think she didn't understand the concept of praying, and in some ways she didn't-- because no matter how often she'd wished it, the beatings went on. No one made them magically stop. But the meditative state achieved by repeating the same set of words or ideas, over and over, so that your mind detached from your body? That part, she believed in, had tangible proof of. The worst of it was always the beating itself-- once he stopped and she was left on her own again, she could mostly ignore her body's sensations. It was the actual doling out of each blow that she had to learn to ignore, since there was no way to dodge it. She just learned to take it, and do what she could to pretend like it hadn't happened at all. It was only that foster father's going too far with his own daughter, and breaking her nose, that got Brennan out of the house-- at which point the social worker pretended as though Brennan had never complained in the first place. Well, she wasn't the only one who'd learned to avoid the truth of things when they were unpleasant, and pretend like things happened otherwise.

Mere hunger and sleep were meaningless after that-- in comparison to what she'd experienced those five months, such things were inconsequential. She was, or had been, she now realized, attuned to something far different, so much higher on the scale of things, that the little things just didn't register. She had been, for decades, poised for the next blow out of nowhere, the pause of uneven duration before the second, third, seemingly endless next strike fell. A growling stomach, the gritty eyes and dizzy sensation of not enough sleep were nothing, comparatively. No wonder she didn't notice she'd missed her own period—being able to pay attention for that level of sensation was like trying to keep track of a flea when what she was constantly poised for was a steam roller. The mindset had helped her, at various times, like Cuba and other trips, when there had been other steam rollers to endure, but in the end, the evasive technique became a habitual state, not one consciously invoked. And habits could easily become bad ones—liabilities, not useful tools.

It was supremely ironic, or bitterly just, or cosmically unfair-- something that required multi-layered, contradictory, complex terms to describe it-- that she should be brought back to a physical awareness of herself by another outwardly upstanding man, likewise capable of the most chilling brutality once the doors to the outside world were closed. At least she'd had a personal hand in stopping this one, even as it meant the loss of a treasure, as Booth said, that she didn't even know she had, because she didn't allow her body to dictate the way her mind wanted her to appear to the rest of the world. She'd lost that ability to ignore her physical self on the landing at the bottom of those ten stairs. It didn't matter if she fell, or was pushed. All that mattered was what was lost and what was gained when she landed.

Booth already knew about most of her own ghosts. She supposed she'd better give him this last ghost to help exorcise, since he'd already banished her fears about his future interest in children, and whether he blamed her for not paying attention, all while she was sleeping. Now that she was awake again, she could concentrate on making sure that she'd know a treasure if she saw one again, and could go"_back to helping the people in their two kingdoms ... even though there are some squires and subjects who don't understand what it's like to chase dragons and highwaymen._"

Booth was right-- now that she'd had time to internalize it, albeit unconsciously, she didn't care if other people were jealous of their tiaras and swords. She only cared, now that she remembered, about the fact that Booth didn't expect any more from her than she felt she could give, and that she and Booth knew that they loved "_each other, and that they understand how hard it is to do what they do, even if no one else does_."

Booth understood why they did what they did-- it drove him too. Now he just needed to realize the one inconsistency in their story-- he'd said "_he was horrified to find out how bad it actually was, because he knew if they fought the dragon together, the princess might not have been hurt_." Brennan knew that Booth would have done what he could, but the fact remained-- dragons happened sometimes, no matter that Booth "_did better than five other knights could have done, combined." "He still thought he'd failed_." It wasn't true, though, Brennan knew so. Booth would need to accept that what was good for the princess was good for Sir Seeley.

Brennan sighed, releasing that last bit of concern for their future, and let her eyes close again as the vestigial dream thoughts faded from need for further analysis. Tired again, she burrowed back into Booth, and his arms tightened reflexively around her, his own chest and legs moving behind hers until they were aligned perfectly, in sync with each other—like the plates on a suit of armor, the parts of a jousting lance, the interlinked jewels of a tiara, or the hand-sewn pages of a magical tome.


	17. Chapter 17

Leaps and bounds, he'd thought to himself, when he first thought about how Bones had put her heart into overdrive. He was wrong-- she was more like a turbo-charged engine. Booth sighed, and opened another beer after dinner while Bones took a bath. At least tomorrow was Friday. She'd gone back to work yesterday and was already elbow-deep in limbo remains, wearing out the new grad student, and tearing through x-ray and remote consultations for other research institutions that backed up while she was away. She'd plowed through four limbo bodies, assigned the grad student three others to work on, and completed three of the backlogged consult requests within the doctor-alotted six hours.

Cam actually called Booth four hours in to complain that "Hurricane Temperance" was wearing everyone out even when she'd taken a two hour break from standing to work from her couch, and that he'd better get her out of there on the dor in two more hours so everyone else could take a breather. When he stopped by her office on his way in to pick Bones up, Cam sighed, only in part exaggeration, in relief. "I forgot what it's like when she's focused on something," she said tiredly, nonetheless glad that Brennan was back. She'd run her hands through her hair thinking back over all the mail and phone messages that normally went straight to Brennan without her ever seeing it, then told him how tired she was just doing that.

"Seeley-- did you know she gets a dozen consult requests from other labs and universities every week? _And_ she's been turning CIA and NSA down on a regular basis for the last two years, they want her to consult on cases like you guys do. Could've knocked me over with a feather, but she's got a bajillion "_no thanks, not until you let me bring the bodies to the Jeffersonian instead of your ridiculous underequipped secure facility_," letters to them on her hard drive, so I just kept turning them down. And then all the lecture requests and the conference invitations and the job offers. She never tells me about any of that except for the consults she accepts, and then it's just to let me know that she's taken them. But man, those job offers..."

"Job offers?" he'd asked, surprised and a little worried. Bones never mentioned that she had other job offers.

Cam nodded, seemingly amazed. "Three in the last month. She told me the first time we talked that I should just turn whatever came in down-- didn't even want to hear what they were. Serious universities, foreign governments, private institutions here and abroad that would pay a whole hell of a lot more than here. I had to scan and email her the ones from Brazil and China, though, no one was around besides her who reads Portuguese or Mandarin. And I had to poke on her computer for something, and it looks like three a month's at the low end of average" She shook her head. "I had no idea how much stuff end-runs around me until she was out. Not that I would have been able to deal with it anyway, but still."

Booth had tipped his head, guaging to see if Cam was annoyed or just tired. "Well," he tried, "Bones is a law to herself."

Cam smiled, nodding. "Thank goodness she's just decided to be a law to herself here. I never would have bugged her about anything, but the Board would just die if they knew how often other places keep trying to poach her."

Booth smiled in response, feeling relieved. He knew Bones was always pushing through papers that had nothing to do with him or with Limbo, but she'd never really bothered to discuss those things with him-- much like he hadn't bothered her about the minor cases he oversaw the younger agents in MCU on. He supposed he should fill her in on those details. Not that they were really that interesting, but just because if they were going to be a real couple, that meant sharing the boring stuff as well as the fun things. But if she wasn't a peach when he came to collect her when it was time to go, she didn't complain or try to drag work home, either-- just jotted a few notes to herself, made a call each to Ange and the grad student with reminders, and collected her things. She really was taking the taking care of herself thing seriously.

* * *

They'd met once with Cullen and Caroline on Monday to go over the formal conflict of interest waivers that necessarily came with their now being involved. Bones had been her polite, squinty self, assuring both Cullen and Caroline that the two of them "were and always would be professional." She'd been so serious, and so worried beforehand about it that he stifled the urge to laugh or explain when she just looked confused after Cullen smiled reassuringly and said "Well, it worked for Scarecrow and Mrs. King." He was relieved that after all the drama of their getting together, though, the actual official paperwork and approvals had been anticlimactic-- almost low key. Both Cullen and Caroline had made comments about "it being inevitable, anyway," and "your track record speaks for itself." He just hoped that held true through the next case of theirs that went to court. At least that had been easy to deal with, and didn't require a lot of emotional effort.

These last few weeks Bones had been dragging him along behind her, emotionally, as if he was the one who'd been stunted all of these years. Hell, maybe he had. Whatever internal insight she hadn't yet shared with him, she'd been a virtual wellspring of past history, though she was still reserved around people who didn't know her that well. But when she made up her mind to trust you and tell you things, boy, did she ever.

When Bones told him why she was so weird about the way she dealt with her body, it took everything in him not to find out where the bastard lived and hunt him down. Bones' assurance that he'd died from a long painful cancer was only a slight comfort. If he could find the malicious bastard's grave, dig him up, and bring him back to life all over again, just so he could kill him himself, Booth might have been satisfied. One lingering death wasn't enough, though two would hardly have been better. But while Bones seemed sad about the whole thing and had cried a little bit when she told him, it seemed more like she was relieved to have figured out what was going on than anything else. Certainly, she was being diligent about her meetings with the trainer three times a week, and the daily walks she was taking herself on. He'd volunteered to go with her, and she'd smiled wryly. "No, you go for a run. I'll catch up eventually." Right now, though, he was lagging behind her on the heart side of things-- she was doing the brains and the heart for both of them, and he felt more than a little bit guilty and mad at himself for what he knew were irrational reactions.

He actually heaved when he went with her to her place last weekend so she could pick up some suits and other belongings. She wasn't daring him to come up with her when she said "You don't have to come up," but the fact that she _knew _that the idea of setting foot in her place made him sick made it impossible for him not to follow. And he would have had to anyway to bring down her things-- she wasn't supposed to carry more than ten pounds for a while. But she'd politely ignored him when they came into her place, including the obvious sound of him clapping his hand over his mouth as he booked for her kitchen sink-- she'd just kept walking back to the bedroom, letting him finish in private. When he was finished rinsing the sink and brushing his teeth in her bathroom, he joined her back in the bedroom. She looked at him sympathetically, but said nothing other than to ask him to pull a garment bag down from the top shelf of her closet. At least it went better than it did when he came back to get that suit for her all those weeks ago. He'd heaved for ten minutes straight as soon as he walked in the door, then heaved again when he walked into her bedroom. Just one heave in the sink this time wasn't too bad, all considered. If he gave it a month, he might actually be able to eat here again. Three months? He might even be able to kiss her within spitting distance of her bedroom.

At least he'd made progress on the wooing Bones front. She'd been surprised and almost embarrassed when she came back from a midafternoon coffee date with Angela two weekends ago to find that he'd planned a real dinner date, complete with a new dress and accessories for her and a reservation at one of the nicest places in town. She was actually flustered, something he didn't often get to see, and protested with a sheen of wetness in her eyes that it was "too much," especially when she took a closer look at the jewelry that went with the dress.

It took him forever to pick out that jewelry-- the dress was easy, since Bones made even those ugly jumpsuits from the lab look like a million, and he'd already lucked out buying her that dress in Las Vegas, so he knew what might suit her-- but she had such a wide range of accessories that to him bordered on ugly or weird, though he'd never say so aloud, that finding something that would appeal what Ange called "funky statement pieces" yet were dressy enough to be special that he'd been stumped. Finally, he dragged Parker out after Mass, and found that his son had a good instinct for what Bones might like.

"How do you know she's going to like these, Buddy?" Booth asked him, after he nodded for the sales clerk to bring up the dozen or so different things his boy had selected.

His son just looked at him like he was explaining something elementary. "I had the flu and Bones let me sleep on her bed and play with her jewelry, like Mama does when I'm sick. She has lots of weird stuff but she likes lots of beads and a big shiny thing in the middle of all of the beads the most, I think. And then dangly stuff on her ears."

Sure enough, Parker had chosen necklaces with multiple strands joined with a pendant, and matching or coordinating earrings. Some were simpler and smaller than others, and some were almost chunky, but they were all made of more expensive materials than the coral or wood or stones with silver she usually wore. And now that Booth looked at them, the items were in the same red, blue, and green color families Bones tended to favor.

"Well, I bought Bones a turquoise dress to go with it, so which one do you think I should get?" Booth had been holding Parker up under his arm so he could see over the jewelry counter, as the sales clerk looked on in amusement at the small boy so seriously looking over the selections she'd laid out on a piece of black velvet.

Parker thought seriously. "Is it greener or bluer? And is it deeper, Mama calls it a v-neck? And Mama says longer skirts mean fancier things."

Booth shook his head. He wondered if Rebecca would laugh to know that she was giving Booth jewelry advice for his Bones. She liked Bones, though, so he wouldn't sweat it. "It's greener, and the fabric's shiny, and it has a v-neck and it goes to her knees," he said, as Parker thought some more.

"This one," he said, pointing to a necklace with multiple strands of rough-cut blue-green peridots and moonstones, with a silver pendant containing a polished round moonstone at the center. "And these danglies," he said, pointing at some coordinating earrings of silver chain with large bits of roughcut peridots attached along their length.

The sales clerk laughed when Booth said, "you heard him, we'll take it."

Bones got even more teary-eyed after her initial demurral when he said "Nah, Bones, you deserve nice things."

She was holding the necklace in her hands and staring at it when she said softly. "No one's ever bought me jewelry before."

He swallowed the lump in his throat at the thought of it-- how many guys had she dated?-- and just hugged her and said "Well, get used to it," before he lightened the mood by nuzzling her neck until his stubble tickled and scratched her, making her laugh.

They had a nice dinner-- she looked gorgeous in the dress and the jewelry, didn't make fun of the huge steak he ordered, and she ate all the food on her plate, and even ate half a dessert. On their walk back to the car, they stopped to watch an impromptu jazz concert being given by a few kids from the music conservatory on the sidewalk out front-- some old couple also watching requested some standards, and started dancing, which prompted everyone else standing around to join in. Bones laughed when Booth insisted they dance, and their little part of the plaza turned into a miniature ballroom until the kids' parents showed up to give them their rides home. All the dancing couples insisted on tipping them, to their parents' amazement. Bones laughed her head off when the oldest of them said cheekily, "Same time next week!"

He rounded up Jack and Angela the next week for a double date that was a last minute surprise for Bones, though he felt a little weird making that final leap from work colleagues to friends with the bug man and the artist-- he knew it was dumb, he considered the squints to be friends even before all this happened, but he'd rarely socialized with them outside work. He mostly just hung out with Bones-- the guys from the Bureau weren't really friends, just guys to go drinking with. He'd pretty much let them slide when they kept talking about how hot Bones was, and why he should bang her-- they never paid attention to how smart she was, so he just stopped going out. Not that they'd been people to tell things to anyway. Jack was actually better at that kind of stuff than the cops he should really have more stuff in common with-- but the bug man was a good listener, and had the advantage of being a big fan of Bones in his own way. Certainly, Booth could hardly think ill of the guy when Bones would say "No, Jack brought me something" on all the days when Booth wasn't working a case with them, but still called to make sure she ate-- and Parker thought he was cool from their afternoons at the park while he was gone. Anyone his son liked was alright with him.

He had Ange arrange to take Bones on a shopping excursion, and when they got back Jack was already over. The four of them went to the inaugural show of a newly-restored drive-in only an hour away. Bones and Jack started geeking out over the sound technology for hearing the movie inside the car until he and Angela ordered them to watch the movie, and stop talking equipment. They went out for drinks at a bar near Hodgins' place after, at which point he heard Bones tell Angela, "No, I've never been to a drive-in before." That comment made his plan for wooing Bones so much easier-- all he had to do now was figure out everything else she'd never done or never had done for her, and start working his way down the list. Who hadn't been to a drive in, or never had anyone significant other give her jewelry before? The same woman never learned any stories in childhood, he guessed.

* * *

Brennan and Angela walked several blocks to a new deli for lunch, and settled into a corner table to talk. Though Brennan hardly was one to take lunch on a regular basis, it would make her worrisome friends and Booth happy to watch her eating over something besides work, so she didn't put up a fuss when Angela came to the doorway once again calling, "Bones! Hey, Bones! That lunch won't eat itself!" Brennan just rolled her eyes, though she had to admit, Angela did do a fair impression of Booth, right down to the way he rocked back on his heels when he was looping his thumbs through his belt. Angela never called Brennan "Bones" except when she was nagging her to eat, though, and Brennan thought back to how the habit had started back when Booth had first left and she and Jack were worried for her. The startlement of hearing Booth's name from anyone was enough to have her out of her seat and halfway out the door as she'd tried to process, and Ange took advantage ever after.

They'd taken their first bites of their orders before Angela spoke. "So, spill. Special Agent McHottie looked like he had something up his sleeve when he dropped you off this morning. What are you kids doing for date night this weekend?"

Brennan smiled, shaking her head as she took another a spoonful of her matzo ball soup. "I don't know. He likes to make it a surprise, and it's no use asking him. I asked him last night and he actually said '_what makes you think I had plans, and remind me who you are again_ _and why you're living here_?'"

Ange snorted. "Romantic wiseass, your Booth."

"I know..." she said. "It'll be tonight, though, because he has Parker tomorrow and Sunday."

"Are you going to stay at your place while he has him?"

Brennan shook her head. "No-- though I may go back there to sort through some things, since Booth's supposed to be helping coach soccer tomorrow. We haven't decided who's moving where, but I will need to get rid of some things no matter what. I thought I would go through my books and my closet."

"Is it weird, you know, moving in with Booth so soon?" Angela asked, chin in her hand. None of this had come out the way she ever thought it would, and yet here were Booth and Bren, seemingly happy despite everything.

Brennan smiled a small far-off smile. "It depends on what your definition of soon is. Four years? Two and a half months? Once it actually happened and we straightened things out it was inevitable."

"So... you kids are all better now?" Angela asked, with hope in her eyes.

Brennan looked back at her, making eye contact. "Not all better, but getting there. I got him to shower with me every morning this week, he only turned green when we stopped off at my place last night to pick up more clothes for me at the gym, and we've progressed to what do they call it? Heavy patting?"

"Petting, not patting" Angela answered, sighing slightly. "Well, better than before. Have you guys talked about maybe seeing someone until he feels better about everything? I mean, a guy like Booth is probably usually pretty..."

Brennan looked at her sharply and cut her off before she could continue. "No. And I wouldn't suggest it, nor would Booth agree. He's... there's... it's private, and talking about it won't help him get over things. It's better than it was, and when I call him on things he has a real conversation, and I'm not worried about the rest of it. It might take some more time, but it will be fine in the end." She took another sip of her soup, then grimaced. "Listen to me. I sound like that woman Opie on television."

Angela choked on her milkshake. "Oprah, Bren, Oprah. But... you don't feel weird moving in with a guy, even Booth, if you've only ever slept with him once?"

Brennan thought for a moment, then answered seriously. "If it were anyone but Booth, then yes, but Booth is the exception to every rule. I... I always went on about biological urges, and they're still important, and believe me, something I want, but... other things are as important, not more. Booth's more important than biological urges, even urges for him."

"Sweetie, you're such a romantic," Angela sighed, meaning it.

Brennan chuckled dryly. "I suppose. Just don't tell anyone."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Angela said, then held up her pinky for Brennan to grasp with her own. Brennan just stared at the finger until her friend said, "Bren, sweetie, really-- no pinkie swears?"

"Sorry," she said, chuckling again. "At least that hasn't changed. You can still count on me for three or four '_I don't know what that means_,' in a week."

"Well, that's good. I think the world would fall off its axis if you stopped saying it altogether."

Brennan tipped her head, regarding the artist like a specimen. "I hardly see how it would be possible for a force of such magnitude as the earth's poles to be affected by something with no mass and therefore no polarity or other physical impact."

"You are feeling better."


	18. Chapter 18

**_We come now, not to the end of the story, but to a portion where our two heroes ready themselves once again for battle, after resolving their fears._**

**_

* * *

_**There was wooing; there was working; there was increasing intimacy. And then there was the trial.

* * *

Booth arranged for a private session of laser tag followed by milkshakes and hamburgers and fries at a drive in at the end of her third week with her trainer, plus a jeweled barrette the right length and width to hold her hair while they chased each other and fired their weapons over the obstacle course.

They went apple picking and took a hayride, followed by picnic of beer, fried chicken and biscuits and coleslaw one sunny Saturday, a pair of apple-red garnet and clear quartz "danglies" adorning her ears. Bones made him an apple crumble when they got home, with an edible topping, and ate her own apples raw.

There was a private viewing of Delphinus descending at the lab's observatory as early fall yielded to cooler weather, and the constellation swam on to warmer skies, preceded by dinner at a brand-new and tiny tapas place, where they took turns squabbling over shrimp in garlic and chicken croquetas, drinking wine and finishing dinner with a sherry and cheese course that had even Booth admitting "fancy wine's not so bad." The light from the reflectors on the telescope picked up the glint of the seven tiny bezel-set diamonds dotting the angles of a silver pendant hanging on a chain at Brennan's throat-- the shape of the pendant mirrored the stars up above.

They started swing dancing lessons with Angela and Hodgins, Bones attending their first lesson in a new emerald green and navy blue foulard print silk dress Booth picked out for the knee length trumpet skirt, perfect for twirling. She wore a new silver and lapis choker and studs, the silver catching the light from the disco balls overhead.

* * *

They had two recoveries in four weeks; Brennan was able to do the digging on the first one herself, as the grave was shallow and the dirt only needed to be trowelled away. She had no problem bending and kneeling and stretching over the body, and spent the thirty minutes required to make a proper inspection without becoming winded or noticeably tired. She stood guard as the techs lifted and bagged the remains themselves, her watchful gaze burning into the back of their necks as she waited; she needn't have worried. During Brennan's absence, Geier and Turner read up on every text they could find about the proper uncovering and removal of human remains, and Geier, in turn, had terrified all the tech agents under him into being able to do it in their sleep. Once the remains were safely in the van, and before she could start directing the taking of samples, she smiled brightly at Geier and said "very nice, Marcus, thank you." As he stammered "you're... you're... you're welcome, Dr. Brennan" around his surprise at being addressed by his first name, Geier was inwardly wondering how Booth ever got any work done if Dr. Brennan smiled like that around him all the time.

Brennan was able to accompany Booth to the initial family interview, and many of the witnesses could be brought into the Hoover, so she attended those, too. Both partners ignored the looks they got when they strode through the halls, keeping pace with each other and intent as always on the outcome of their cases. Gossip had mostly died down, and Cullen, Sweets, and Caroline had a standing weekly lunch date to discuss whatever new rumors they'd heard that needed to be crushed. There was a fresh spate the first two times Brennan appeared at the Hoover, but as Sweets said, "one of my patients was all complaining and shit about Booth still heading up MCU even though he's been out for so long, but I Obi-Waned him about all the crap Booth was doing from home while taking care of Dr. Brennan and the patient was totally going to spread the word that '_these are not the droids you're looking for_' when I was done with him." Caroline spoke for both she and Cullen when she said, "Whatever that means, Cher, as long as it's good, then I'm proud of you."

Booth, with Turner as field backup ended up chasing down the first murderer; he, Booth and Brennan took turns confronting the man with the evidence until he wore down and confessed. Turner walked around with a spring in his step for days afterward; he hadn't had a real field chase complete with punching and climbing and jumping and throwing suspects into brick walls in years, but he'd managed to lag only a few steps behind Booth and get a few good shots of his own in. Booth's laconic "Thanks, Man," was almost as enthralling as Brennan's light voice saying "Thank you, Henry, and how are your girls?"

Brennan completed nearly all of her backlogged consult requests, except for the three sets of remains that were so old that they required that she personally handle them; she advised the institutions that her weight restrictions would be resolved by the end of the month, and each responded thanking her for the nonetheless quick turnaround. Brennan's poor graduate student was exhausted by all the Limbo files Dr. Brennan had her help with, but within two weeks had begun to anticipate what the doctor would need and found herself finally getting the hang of the more abstruse aspects of the science. Brennan's serious and deliberate "very nicely done" on two seperate occasions had her babbling at home to her boyfriend about "_microfractured occipitals_" until he groaned. Cam peeked in Dr. Brennan's trash one or two times and saw more job offers from other prestigious institutions.

Their second case involved several bodies at the base of a steep ravine, one Brennan wasn't quite yet fit enough to climb down. After what Geier called "a little bit of technical MacGyvering," he rigged a handheld videocamera to send a short range signal to Brennan as she stood with her laptop at the top of the ravine. Geier and the subagent helping him were able to follow Brennan's instructions about moving and uncovering the remains for further inspection, and in only fifteen minutes' more time than it would have taken her to do it herself, the "grunt techs" as Geier called them were able to bag and bring up the remains while he gathered samples. The victim ID and cause of death came quickly; one of the suspects Booth and Turner identified on motive alone had a notable spinal deformation consistent with the blunt force trauma inflicted by distinct angled kicks, as opined by Brennan. While the suspect didn't confess, Booth and Turner were able to provoke him to the point where he got up and kicked over the table on film. Brennan, watching in the anteroom with Dr. Sweets, rubbed her hands and said, "oh, perfect," as she watched the suspects spine coil, then uncurl. The film and the dented table along with the team's forensic conclusions all went to Caroline.

* * *

Booth was getting better at ignoring Bones' scars. He didn't think about seeing her, whiter than sheets and so thin and frail looking that she might blow away in a stiff wind, more than once or twice a day. And he didn't think of her falling, her legs crumpling out from her as her body went utterly limp and she gasped out a "sorry" that sounded like the last thing she'd say more than once or twice a day either. He was learning not to think that he'd practically lost her, all for the want of a small piece of latex, and hardly ever heard the sounds of crash carts and paddles and EKG machines—all things that replaced his old nightmares of his buddies in combat, and the things they'd experienced, nightmares that knowing her had mostly banished. He instead tried to concentrate on her laugh, and her pink-tinged cheeks when they were outside playing with Parker on the weekends, and the way she strode around the lab and with him when they were working.

Each morning, they showered together, Booth becoming more bold in where his hands roamed. Each night, they shared his bed, waking with their hands up shirts and down pants, over breasts and buttocks and waists until he grew not accustomed, because touching Bones would never get old, but glad to again have the chance to touch her soft skin and be near enough to have her scent and strands of her hair invading his nose.

They'd been packing more things at her place; they were planning on finding one new place to share, and were taking turns bargaining over what squinty and sporty things they would get rid of. He could eat there now and only feel slightly nauseous, and he'd been able to kiss her and hug her in the door to her bedroom for several minutes without batting an eyelash. She fell asleep on top of her bed during one long patch when he was hauling boxes and bags to go to various charities down to the truck, and he found her sacked out, lying diagonally over the bed. Bracing himself, he lay down behind her and gathered her to him. He didn't wake until an hour later when she shifted and mumbled, and woke to find her smiling tenderly at him.

Her genuine, enthusiastic, and passionate responses each time he crossed another '_first_' off her list on their 'dates' had him feeling bolder, and as Brennan said to Angela one day at lunch, "sorry, Angela, no more details, there are going to be too many to tell sometime soon." Their swing dancing lesson had ended at home with Booth tossing Brennan into the air after they'd both undressed, and she laughingly demanded he show her one of the steps that required a particularly close embrace before beginning the twirl again. He'd twirled her with no compunction, and she felt better than she ever had, because she was close to being as physically strong as she'd been before it all happened, but infinitely happier.

* * *

Their fifth date was another '_first_' for Brennan; Sully notwithstanding, she'd only ever been sailing in small one or two person shallow water craft. Booth had a friend with a deep sea racing boat, and arranged for them to go out for a Sunday. Brennan was exhilarated by the speed and the way all four of them plus the skipper had to hike out to offset the way the boat heeled as it sped through the waves. When they returned home after a dinner at a crab shack near the quay, both covered in salt spray, her enthusiasm became quickly contagious as they made out on his couch.

Her mischevious peppering kisses as she straddled his lap and licked the salt spray from his face were mirrored by his own teasing bites at the skin of her neck, his hands up her shirt palming her breasts over her sports bra. Her nipples were hard under his touch, and her own hips ground into his as he continued to suck his way up her neck. She was holding onto his hair, her head falling back, and his erection twinged painfully and demandingly at the sight of her arousal.

Before he could think too much about it, he peeled her top layers from her, baring her breasts to him, then helped her as she pushed at his own shirt. She braced her hands on his shoulders as she still knelt straddling him, then gasped in relief as his mouth closed over her breasts, sucking her slowly but hungrily. His large hand at her back clasped her to him as his mouth moved over her chest, his tongue tracing her curves, and she raked her nails lightly over his shoulders and neck as he continued to kiss and nip at her. The warmth of his bare chest on her skin and the feel of his strong arms around her fueled the heat pooling at her center, and more quickly than with other men (though of course Booth was hardly any other man, she thought to herself) she was gasping and breathless under his mouth. When he paused in his attentions to nuzzle her at the curve of one breast, she pulled his head up in her hands, kissing him deeply as his hands at her waist jerked her down onto his solid, straining erection. She ground into him willingly, and his hands shifted from her waist to her breasts as he cupped her and teased her hardened nipples with his deft fingers, all the while as they kissed, their tongues tangling together.

Before long, they made their slow way to the bedroom, shedding clothes along the way. She helped him slide off his pants, pausing to suck and nip at his nipples and over his chest until he growled lowly and pulled her up for a breathstealing kiss. He pushed off her closefitting yoga pants and underwear, pausing to cup the curves of her well-toned and yet almost impossibly feminine rear in his hands, kneading the flesh as she ground against him, her bare skin pressed against his straining erection.

He lay her down on the bed, taking her in hungrily as he hovered above her, and she pulled him down for a kiss. He lay next to her, pulling her body along his as their skins shared their heat, and they resumed a languid series of kisses strokes and exploring hands, until under Booth's touch Brennan was gasping and writhing.

"Oh… want you so much…" she managed to moan, and the tongue that was swirling over her navel made its way to her core. She cried out, jerking, when his mouth first sealed itself to her center, but the cry quickly gave way to a moan of anticipatory need. He was teasing her as he tasted, and though he was taking his time, Brennan's own need for him built quickly. She lost track of what she was moaning, and her limbs were heavy and tingling as the fire Booth stoked in her center burnt higher, until her orgasm washed over her and she let out a long exhaled "aaahh" in response, her hand clutching his as she came. She came back to herself to find Booth looking at her, amazed—and she hoped, relieved, that she would respond to him so.

"Your turn," she said, pushing up to one side until she was half sitting, and could push Booth back onto the bed. Straddling him over her thighs, she stroked her fingers firmly over each rib and his sternum, then traced the line of each well-defined muscle. She let her hands linger on him, enjoying his muscular hardness, smooth skin, the incredible heat that rolled off his body. She knew the feeling was melodramatic, but it was nonetheless true-- she could never really be cold, body or heart, so long as she was with Booth. Certainly that heated gaze of his warmed her all over again.

She trailed her fingers teasingly over his rock-solid erection, getting a feel for the soft skin covering him and the firm tissue beneath, all a visible reaction to her presence and her desire for him. She shifted, still gripping him, then curled at his side so she could rest her head on his stomach while she took him in hand. She stroked her hand several times over his length, getting a feel for his width and how he would feel in her hand. He felt wonderful to her, as she'd remembered, and the masculine beauty of being this way with him again nearly overwhelmed her.

Taking him into her mouth, she tasted him fully, exploring his length with her tongue and her cheeks as she slid her lips over him slowly. He inhaled sharply when her lips first closed on him, then again when she flicked her tongue over the head of his shaft. She sucked as she slid her lips back and forth over him, taking her time as she gripped the base of his length in one hand, and massaged his sac lightly with the other. His hand flexing in her hair and his own harsher breathing urged her ahead, and his harsh breathing slowly built into gasps as she sped the pressure and pace of her mouth on him. She paused at the end of his length to suck hard at his smooth sensitive head, then pressed her tongue over him in firm, speeding strokes that had him groan "Oh God, Bones" aloud. She returned after a few more strokes to taking him in again, and his groans were more frequent—she could feel him trying to hold himself back from either jerking his hips as she took him in, or shoving her head down as his fingers clawed through her hair, and knew he was close. Brennan sped the pace once again, enjoying the sound of his responding to her. Finally he gasped out, "Bones, stop, I want to…" so she released him, slowing sliding him from her mouth with one last pass of her tongue over his head.

She turned to look up at him and found herself pulled up by her arm to lie next to him. He enfolded her completely in his arms, rolling her onto her back as he kissed her deeply and passionately, the length and heat of him pressing her into the bed as she kissed him back with everything in her. Their lips parted as they each sucked in air, needing fuel to sustain them, and he looked at her searchingly for a long moment, before she nodded and said "yes," to his unspoken question.

Booth rolled to one side and fumbled out the box she'd come home with several weeks ago and placed in his bedside table. She hadn't announced the purchase beforehand, nor told him where she'd put them, but when he opened the drawer looking for something, there they were. He'd been proud of himself for not even being nauseous, even as he knew the self he'd been before this all started would have scoffed at how badly scared of this he still sometimes was. He managed to get the box open, proud all over again that his hands weren't even shaking, and she took one foil square from the opening with a smile at him. She turned to her side, and with as much solemn ceremony as bestowing royal vestments, she rolled the condom over him, then pulled him in for a long, heated kiss.

His entry was controlled, the look on her face blissful as he sheathed himself fully, her hands on his back holding him firmly to her as she breathed out a "so good…" She was so warm and silk all around him that he almost felt like he could stay right there forever, but she hitched her legs up, cradling him as she curled her head up to kiss him again. Breaking apart, he withdrew and returned again, eyes closed against how incredible she was and the urge to explode within her immediately. The entrée completed, their pas de deux slid seamlessly into the adagio, their bodies curling and arching together as their arms encircling one another kept the other close.

Her own variation came quickly, her body primed and waiting for him long weeks, and the heat building in her made her flush and pant, as she began calling out from her gathering tension. "Oh, want you, need you," she gasped, her eyes locked with his and glazed with need as he withdrew and returned again. She was stunning, and Booth felt humbled all over again that this was finally happening, though he was surprised somewhat by how quickly she'd built—not that he wasn't holding himself back from the precipice.

"Oh, baby, I love you," he murmured, reaching between them to stroke her clitoris and bring her to her release. She arched and seized suddenly, back bowing away from him as she cried "Seeley!"—then fell utterly limp as her climax drained her completely.

As she fell limp in his arms, a wholly irrational fear seized his heart, biting in like a steel trap, and her limbs limp from ecstasy, her skin flushed a full healthy pink were replaced instantly with the memory of her falling, her life draining out on that sidewalk as she sagged under his grip. A raw, terrified "no!" ripped from his throat at the flashback, and he pulled her to him, sobbing "no, no, please no, you can't go, oh God no," as each grimace of pain, each hiss of discomfort, each pale, weak hour she slept in his arms at the hospital flattened him, the memories a hammer and anvil and he struck between them. He vibrated with the force of all the emotions he'd repressed as he tried to take care of her and get her healthy again, and all the anguish and feelings of helplessness shattered the walls he thought he'd successfully built to hold them at bay.

Brennan had worked with enough families of genocide victims to know he was having a flashback, and she sobered instantly, trying to call him back to the present. "Seeley, it's fine, I'm okay, you're right here with me and I'm fine," she said, repeating the same assurances over and over as she squeezed him tightly to her while he sobbed and gasped brokenly into her shoulder. The siege his emotions laid on him passed eventually, and as he quieted, she turned them so he lay on his back and she pulled her head into her lap, stroking his face and murmuring more words of comfort as he buried his face in her stomach, his arms clamped around her waist so tightly that she knew he felt that if he let go, she'd disappear.

"Shh, Seeley, it's over," she said, stroking the line of his cheek once again, then bending to place a kiss on the shoulder nearest her. "It's okay, I'm okay, you're okay, we're going to be fine, Seeley, really," she said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Are we?" he choked out, finally gathering the courage to look at her.

"We are," she said, with absolute certainty. "I know it."

"But…you… I can't do this again if you get hurt…" he said, his voice choking and new tears welling at the mere thought of her leaving him.

"Shh. I want you to listen, okay?" She smoothed her hand over his hair. "Have you ever seen a sword made? The metal gets treated and hammered and treated again, put through intense periods of heat, sudden shocks of cold water, and hammered against an anvil harder than anything the sword could ever be made of. It's called hardening, and tempering, and one wrong step can destroy the material—but if it's done right, then the steel is perfectly ready, and can be sharpened and ready for use slaying dragons and highwaymen."

He startled at her last words, and looked up, shocked, at her small smile. "Let me tell you a story, now, okay?"

Looking down at his poor, tear-streaked face, she stroked her hands through his hair, then rested one hand at the base of his neck, and began. She tried to adopt the same tone they'd both taken with Parker when reading him a story—clear, quiet and honest.

"Once upon a time, there was a young princess named Temperance. She lived in a far away land, in a small castle, with her parents, the king and queen, and her older brother, the prince. The princess had an unremarkable childhood. She knew that the king and queen loved her and the prince dearly, and that the prince was trying to become a knight. But in other ways, things were a little different from what other princesses and princes experiences. See, the king and the queen changed kingdoms every so often, telling the prince and the princess that they were "restless souls" and that the change of kingdoms "will be good for you, a chance to meet new people and learn new things in a new place. The princess didn't understand why sometimes they had to move quickly, but her royal parents said "_wanderlust calls, pumpkin_."

As the princess got older, though, she wasn't so sure. She'd made friends with a few other princesses, and often some milkmaids and stable girls, and each time they changed kingdoms, she missed her old friends. One thing didn't change, though. See, the princess wanted to be a scholar, even though that wasn't always a popular thing for a princess to do. Most wanted to do embroidery, or have fancy dresses made, or ride pretty ponies sidesaddle through landscaped gardens. But she met some milkmaids and princesses and duke and duchess' daughters who also wanted to be scholars, or who at least didn't make fun of her because she loved scrolls and would stay up late studying them."

She ran her fingers through his hair as she recounted the story, looking at him with a concentrated expression as she tried to piece the story together for him. Booth was listening, as hard as he'd ever listened to anything. Bones never told him they'd moved multiple times, though he wasn't surprised to hear that she'd always been a squint. That dreamy, thoughtful expression on her face when she was a little girl in that photo was not unlike the one she got, though now less dreamy, more serious, even now when she was coming up with something new and brilliant.

"Well, the king and the queen moved the prince and the princess again to a kingdom by a big lake, almost as big as the sea, where it was very windy. The capital city was surrounded by farmland, but the castle where the royal family lived was right in the midst of the city, and the prince and the princess had a wonderful time exploring their new home. The king and the queen, meanwhile, brought their talents to bear in their new kingdom. The king was a master of alchemy, and began imparting its secrets to the new kingdoms' younger subjects, because he knew if you wanted to be a really great alchemist, you had to start training when you were young. He trained the princess in alchemy, but she also read every scroll she could find about everything, really. Meanwhile, the queen, who had a special talent for numbers, began to teach some of the kingdom's subjects how to count properly, to keep track of all their property the right way, so they and everyone else knew what they had. The princess liked numbers, too, and the queen showed the princess how they could be used to tell the absolute truth, if you were careful, and paid attention, and honored the ways the numbers arranged themselves.

The princess liked her new home, and met a princess and a milkmaid who she really liked, even though she was shy of bigger groups of young subjects. But the other princess and the milkmaid also liked riding their bicycles around their royal and humble neighborhoods, and didn't mind getting dusty and dirty going on small adventures in the capital city. The princess discovered that the capital city had wonderful scrolls, kept in special scroll depositaries all over the city—and that she didn't even have to go from one to the other to get the ones that she wanted, she could just ask the scroll keeper at the one nearest her castle to have them brought in the wagon that travelled between each depositary. If she had a question about something that was in one of the scrolls, the king or queen would answer her questions, and if one of the younger subjects in the kingdom made fun of the princess for liking scrolls so much, her brother the prince would beat them up for her."

A small smile curled the edge of Bones' mouth at this last bit, and Booth couldn't help smiling himself as Bones talked about the joy of interlibrary loans. She looked down and smiled at him, stroking his face with her nimble small fingers, then continued.

"Well, the king and queen liked their new kingdom, and they stayed almost four years. In the meantime, the princess and her two friends changed from one royal scriptorium to another, as they got older. The prince and the princess were attending the same scriptorium, along with her friends, when one day, tragedy struck.

It was almost time for the winter solstice, a holiday the whole royal family liked to celebrate. They celebrated far less opulently than other subjects, with smaller, more meaningful gifts, and only slightly richer foods than they usually ate—sometimes the princess was a little overwhelmed by all the ponies and dolls and dresses other princesses and milkmaids got. She didn't understand why they needed those things, because her parents taught her that while it was nice to have nice things, it was better to share, and not hoard things some poor kitchen drudge might need instead. But she liked the solstice, because it meant a few days when the king and queen stayed at home with her and the prince, and didn't get distracted with alchemy and mathematics. Also, sometimes the princess noticed that her parents were starting to get that look on their faces right before they would say '_wanderlust strikes again, time to move, kiddos,' _so she was hoping solstice would be quiet this year, just in case_._"

"One day, very close to the eve of the solstice" Brennan said, inhaling only slightly raggedly, "the king and the queen had lunch at the castle with the prince and the princess, then went out to patronize the local craftsmen and merchants who purveyed small gifts for the solstice. The king and queen never came back. It was only later that the princess and the prince found out that an evil band of sorcerers drove their parents away, because they were afraid to lead them back to the castle. When they left, the king and the queen thought that the subjects of their kingdom would be loyal, and would take care of the prince and Princess Temperance. After all, the king and the queen had always been kind."

"It didn't work out that way. The prince became increasingly angry at the way the people at the scriptorium and at the local bailiff's office kept telling him he couldn't take care of his sister, and both of them were hurt and confused and angry when their royal parents didn't come back. Solstice was lonely that year, and not long after, the prince decided to go make his fortune in another kingdom, and left the princess alone in the castle. He didn't know what else to do."

Booth ran his hand up her leg, placing a kiss on her stomach, and she looked down and smiled at him lightly, her fingers curling against his scalp, scratching soothingly.

"Well—the princess couldn't take in everything that had happened, and the shock of it all left her tired, and she fell asleep for a very long time. She had lots of dreams, some bad, and some good, while she was sleeping. She always dreamed of reading more favorite scrolls, and doing well at scriptoriums, and attending the best and biggest scriptorium in the city, where she could study the more arcane lore that most people didn't. But she also had bad dreams, where she was passed around from one family of subjects to another, most of whom didn't care about the princess, and cared only about the stipend the bailiffs gave them for feeding the princess and keeping the roof from leaking on her while she slept. Sometimes, the subjects she dreamed about treated her badly, and she would go see the bailiffs, and then they'd pass her off again. Every time that happened, she had to go to a new scriptorium and try to meet new princesses and milkmaids. She got tired, even while she was sleeping, and decided that it wasn't worth it, most of the time, because most of them were suspicious of her love of scrolls and her disinterest in new gowns and pretty ponies with sidesaddles."

"When she got old enough, the dreaming princess found a small room in a drafty tower at the city's best scriptorium. The fire in her fireplace didn't always heat it all the way through, but it was all hers, and no one disturbed her when she read through her scrolls. The best city scriptorium had more milkmaids and stable boys who also liked scrolls, and while the princess by this time had decided it was more trouble than good to try to make friends, at least no one made fun of her for liking scrolls so much."

Brennan paused, thought for a moment, and continued. "There was a pretty young lady, a duchess' daughter named Lady Angela, who lived in the room under the princess' and she and the princess would sometimes smile at each other. The princess liked Lady Angela's smile, and wondered about saying hello, but she'd met so many subjects who weren't interested in getting to know her that she decided it would be better to just keep smiling across the feasting hall rather than risk her not being liked. But… one day, the princess heard a noise from the Lady Angela's room. The captain of the scriptorium's jousting team was in the young lady's room, and was trying to get her to do something unchivalrous that she wasn't interested in. The princess, hearing the noise, ran down to the young lady's room, and hit the squire over the head with her baseball bat, then took the young lady to the bailiff's office to report what happened. The bailiff only reluctantly took the squire into custody, and was going to let him go, but the princess made a royal stink, and the squire was eventually thrown out of the scriptorium."

Booth was surprised, and yet wasn't at all. Neither Bones nor Angela ever said how they met, though he knew it had to have been when they were in college. Given what Bones had just told him, it was no longer a surprise why they didn't speak of the reasons they first became friends. And it sure sounded like Bones—she'd keep to herself unless there were bad guys to get, and then she'd get all kung fu on their asses.

"Well, Princess Temperance dreamed while she slept that Lady Angela was grateful, and over time came to like the princess for who she was, even if she thought the princess should get out more, and see archery contests and go with her to portrait painting sessions. See, Lady Angela was an aspiring painter-- she even got the princess to disrobe and model for her a few times, though the princess was always a little embarrassed. But one of those paintings later got the young lady a scholarship to a graduate scriptorium for artists, so Princess Temperance felt bad feeling embarrassed, even though they'd hung the painting up in the artist's scriptorium."

Bones looked down at him, her hand lightly stroking his neck, still looking a little embarrassed. He wondered what the painting looked like—Bones wasn't usually body-shy.

"In the meantime, Princess Temperance dreamed that she read lots of scrolls in lots of specialties and passed many tests, often in much shorter times than other students, who ended up being jealous. The princess therefore mostly still studied, though she'd go out when Lady Angela asked her to. Eventually, Lady Angela went off to the artist's scriptorium in a city by the ocean with lots of castles, and many big apple trees all around. The princess continued her studies back in the capital city. In her dream, she'd get lonely sometimes, so she would travel with her loremasters to far-away lands to learn things she couldn't learn at home. After she finished her studies, she kept up those trips, even though sometimes the natives were restless, and a few times captured the princess because they thought she was a spy. But she always got out of it, and made her way back to the place where she dreamt.

When she first was coming close to finishing her studies, Princess Temperance had to decide what she wanted to do. She had a loremaster at the scriptorium by the big lake who wanted her to stay after he took her as a mistress, but he was older than her, and talked down to her sometimes, and she suspected that he might have used her notes on scrolls in some of his own scrolls sometimes."

Booth didn't like that Stires bastard already. Now he had a good reason to kill him. Steal Bones' work without crediting her? That was it. And this being accused of being a spy thing on her mysterious trips? Not good at all. But she hadn't been on one of those trips in a long time, so Booth left it for now, rather than interrupt the story. She was telling him more, right now, that she ever had the whole time he'd known her. Brennan noted Booth's jaw ticking at something she'd said, indicating that he was angry for her about something, and smoothed her hand over his jaw.

"Anyway—Princess Temperance decided to move far away, to a kingdom with lots of scriptoriums and historical artifacts, and was able to get a position as a special kind of alchemist and mathematician and blacksmith at a rich scriptorium that let its scholars take lots of overseas trips, and encouraged them to write their own scrolls, and perform their own alchemical studies in between the projects the scriptorium needed their help with. In her dreams, the princess thought she was happy, because she could hire her own staff, including another alchemist, Lord Zach, and Lord Hodgins, a blacksmith who was a good mathematician, too. Lord Zach and Lord Hodgins respected the princess, and never told her she couldn't do something because she was a girl, and the king who ran the scriptorium was kindly, if bossy, and usually let the princess do what she wanted. In the meantime, Lady Angela got tired of living in the city with lots of big apple trees, because the squires there were all pains in the butt, and the portrait scene was too cutthroat—and because the young lady had also developed an interest in mathematics and abacuses that her portraitist friends couldn't understand."

So that's how Angela came to the Jeffersonian-- Booth had wondered. But he didn't know that Bones had a degree in materials science like Hodgins did. No wonder they were thick as squinty thieves on the weapons, sometimes.

"Even though she was still asleep and still dreaming, the princess was glad her friend seemed to like her scriptorium, and she was also glad because once in a while the bailiffs, who worked with the squires and knights in the kingdom, would ask the scriptorium and the princess for help tracking down highwaymen. She did get annoyed when she was doing it, though, because the squires and so-called-knights often told the princess she couldn't know what she was talking about, because she was a girl, or because she didn't understand highwaymen. But the princess was smart, and knew that she could learn whatever she wanted. She also knew that the squires and knights were wasting a lot of time riding around looking for highwaymen, when the princess knew shorter routes, but they didn't want to listen to her, because they thought everyone who worked in a scriptorium was a shortsighted, librarian squint who would be a liability in catching highwaymen. It wasn't true, at least for the princess—she'd learned staff and bow and hand-to-hand combat in the scriptorium by the lake, and had even used her skills a few times on her trips to faraway lands to deal with people who thought she was a spy."

Booth's heart missed a beat. He'd thought she was a shortsighted squint, too, when he first met Bones. And the getting away from people in faraway lands again—not good at all.

"All this time," Bones continued, smiling wistfully down at him, "the princess was asleep in her sunnier, more spacious tower, far away from the ground and all the people who lived outside. She'd have the nice dreams about her new coworkers and her portraitist friend, but they'd be interspersed with old dreams about the subjects who passed her around and the fact that she never knew what happened to the rest of her family, and the new bad dreams of her travels to foreign lands. It wasn't a very restful sleep, so she tried to concentrate on the nice dreams, and ignore the bad dreams. It would work sometimes, but not always, and the longer she slept, the crankier she got, even when she was dreaming the nice dreams.

Then one day, a new knight named Sir Seeley came along, one the king of the scriptorium, which was called Squintland, said she needed to work with, if she wanted to continue to travel and write scrolls of her own. Sir Seeley was an insufferable pig, even more than the other knights, because he was handsome and otherwise seemed to know what he was doing—but even he told the princess that she didn't know what she was talking about when she tried to show him that one of the subjects of his kingdom Coptopia was killed by a jousting lance to the back of the head. She shouted him out of the lab, told Lord Zach to tell Sir Seeley to go to hell if he came by the scriptorium again, and went on another trip to a far-away land."

She smiled at Booth to take the sting from her words, brushing her lips over his and straightening, before getting that faraway look in her eye again.

"The trip didn't go very well. It rained, and the things the princess was trying to learn weren't happening, and then some local natives got restless, and thought she was a spy. She spent several days in a dungeon before she got out with a few other people who'd also been rounded up as spies. After that, Princess Temperance found her royal regalia where she hid it before she was captured, and boarded a very slow mule to get back to Squintland. She did send a message to the king, to say she'd been delayed by the rain, but she never told anyone about any of the times when people thought she was a spy, because they'd freak out and tell her to stop taking trips, even though she learned new things and was sometimes able to help the people of faraway lands find answers to where large parts of their treasures had disappeared. See, sometimes the treasures were even stolen by the governments of the faraway lands, and the princess spent a lot of time digging up large piles of now-ruined treasure, and finding out how it was destroyed."

Mass grave recoveries, then. He'd wondered. Who the hell she'd been doing the work for, and how the hell had they been so sloppy as to let Bones get captured? But she seemed pretty calm about it all, so he had to think that she didn't get as hurt as she could have.

"Princess Temperance made it back to her home port after switching mules a few times, and she was really, really, tired. Lady Angela brought her wagon to the port to meet the princess, but in the meantime, the insufferable Sir Seeley thought it would be funny to have the bailiffs at the port carry Princess Temperance off to a dungeon to wait for him. Well, the princess wasn't happy at all, and was a little hair triggered from getting out of that dungeon in that faraway land, and she disarmed a number of bailiffs before the portraitist convinced her that they would work something out, and that she should wait at the port while Lady Angela found out what happened. Of course, it was that arrogant pig of a knight, and the princess wasn't happy at all. But she needed a ride back to her tower, and he had a big armored horse, so she accepted the ride until she was in walking distance of her castle, then slid off the back and walked off. At this point, the handsome jackass Sir Seeley apologized in his own arrogant way, and agreed that the princess could be helpful outside of the scriptorium to help the subjects of Squintland and Coptopia who were injured by highwaymen."

She paused to smile down at him, then brushed her lips across his again. He was troubled by the new information he was fitting in to the reception she'd given him at the airport. All things considered, he _had_ been a jackass, and he was lucky she hadn't gone all kung fu on him as soon as they were alone. But Bones continued on, as if it didn't bother her any more, and was still scratching her nails through his hair.

"Because she generally thought Sir Seeley was pretty smart and knew what he was doing, she forgave him, and anyway, the princess was glad of the work. But then something interesting happened."

Bones paused and looked down at him, meeting his eyes, her expression utterly serious.

"The princess started to wake up. The sounds from outside got louder, and she was able to see people below her tower better, and the dreams she had about the people at the scriptorium and her adventures with the knight, who never let her take the reins of his horse, even though she was an excellent rider, got more vivid, and the bad dreams didn't happen so often. She started to actually like the insufferable pig of a handsome knight, and began to admire his valiance. She also realized she was a bit too proud of her own accomplishments, even though it was actually often a self-defense mechanism." Brennan smiled wryly and half bitterly at that bit of psychological insight.

"Finally, the princess had a dream about a case with a highwayman who had taken away a small prince from a duchess who was taking care of the prince. The duchess got the small prince, who'd been passed around much like the princess had, as well as some other young princes, and took very good care of him, and the princess was so angry that someone had hurt the small prince that she worked day and night, lighting lots of candles at both ends, to find out what happened. Sir Seeley did, too, and they caught the highwayman, and even though the bailiffs stupidly wanted to send the other small princes to other subjects, even after the princess and the knight proved the duchess had nothing to do with the lost prince's being hurt. But the knight was able to stop them."

Bones gave Booth a brilliant, glittering smile, and then kept talking.

"Right then, the princess woke up, and looked around, and saw that she'd been dreaming magical true dreams, and that she actually now lived in Squintland-Coptopia, since the kingdoms had merged under the partnership the two kings of the lands had forged over some tankers of mead. Sir Seeley had helped with the young princes because he was her friend, and Princess Temperance started to see that she had other real friends at the scriptorium, and she started to be happier than she'd been for a long time, even in dreams.

Anyway—she and the knight continued to ride all over on his charger, and captured more highwaymen, and occasionally dragons, who were harder and sadder to capture. The knight had to rescue the princess a couple of times, although the princess got to pay back the favor every once in a while. The princess started to trust Sir Seeley, and he started to trust her, and they told each other some things about what their lives had been like before they met. Princess Temperance always figured her friend had been through some things, except worse, like she had when she went to faraway lands, but she didn't want to be nosy, since she knew how much it bothered her to think about her own dungeons—though Sir Seeley told her once about one and she tried to be a good friend to him about it, because she understood, sort of, what it was like. She'd had to hurt someone once to get out of a dungeon, and she felt bad about it for a long time. Still does, actually."

As she spoke, Booth watched the wash of memories crossing Bones' face—fondness, remembrance, sadness, anger, grief, sympathy. It was like watching a fast moving rainstorm in the spring—pounding hard rain, gradually slowing, then picking up again before finally tapering off. She paused a long moment, then returned to the story.

"Well, there were more adventures, and they became better friends, and the knight helped the princess find her the king and her brother after she found and buried the remains of her mother, the queen. It was painful, and the princess took a while to understand about the evil band of sorcerers, but eventually everything got it sorted out. But her closest friend was still Sir Seeley, and then Lady Angela, because they'd been there in the meantime, and knew who Princess Temperance was now, instead of who she'd been when she was little. See, she knew she was a prickly pain in the ass, but the fact that these two friends put up with it, and didn't try to make her be someone she wasn't meant a lot. Sometimes the prince and the king tried to make her sit on their laps while they called her Tempe or Pumpkin, which annoyed her, because she was too big for it."

She stopped and rubbed her hand on his neck and his back, then pulled the covers up higher over them.

"In the meantime, the knight and the princess kept chasing dragons and highwaymen. The princess started to wonder at whether she might ever be more than a partner to Sir Seeley, but he was dating a new duchess in town, and then a dragon came along and hurt the duchess, and almost hurt Lord Zach and Sir Seeley's son. The knight told the princess that he wasn't going to date anymore duchesses or anyone else he obviously worked with, because dragons liked to go after people that knights cared about. The princess kept quiet, then, about the fact that she'd started to think about the knight as more than a friend, because Sir Seeley usually knew more about these things than she did. She met another knight, Sir Sully, and dated him for a while, because she was lonely, even though she was still good friends with Sir Seeley, but when Sir Sully wanted to take up as a wandering troubadour in faraway lands and asked the princess to come with him, she decided she couldn't, because she'd miss Sir Seeley and the people of Squintland-Coptopia too much. She told herself it was because of the subjects, but she was just fooling herself, because she'd really decided that even if she was only just friends with Sir Seeley, she'd still rather stay than go off with Sir Sully. She kept quiet, though, because she respected the knight, and anyway, he'd only ever acted like an alpha-male knight with an overprotection complex, rather than someone who wanted to court her. So she respected the line that he drew—Princess Temperance was used to not getting things that she wanted, and hiding her feelings about it, so she put her feelings aside and got back to concentrating on catching dragons and highwaymen, although she occasionally went out with squires and lesser librarians every once in a while, when she got lonely at night."

Booth was in shock. He had no idea she'd been interested that far back, though he sure as hell was, but he'd convinced himself that she wasn't, and then Epps had come up, and he convinced himself that it would be too dangerous to Bones if they got involved. He was an idiot. If he'd only said something earlier. Brennan, meanwhile, smiled sadly at him, seeing that he was re-thinking everything. It was true. She'd eaten her heart out, and suppressed it pretty damned effectively, until the next part of the story.

"And then, one day, a highwayman shot Sir Seeley, and he fell under a spell before Princess Temperance could tell him she loved him more than any stableboy or prince or knight in the kingdom. She shot the highwayman for hurting Sir Seeley, and fought with the other knights and squires who took Sir Seeley off to the surgery and wouldn't let her go with them, and even knocked a few of them out. She begged Sir Seeley to hold onto her hand while the surgeons worked on him, even if it was only in his mind, and rushed off after him to make sure he would be fine."

She had a small smile on her face. No one had ever told him Bones had punched people out after he'd lost consciousness. She was so fierce.

"When she got to the Coptopia surgery, Princess Temperance was told that Sir Seeley was dead, and fell deeply asleep again, except there weren't any good dreams this time. Lady Angela managed to wake her enough to go to the knight's internment, where she found out the knight wasn't dead after all. She woke up as soon as she saw him, then helped clobber the dragon Sir Seeley was chasing while he was in hiding. But the princess was still mad at the knight, because she thought he'd let go of her hand even though he said that he wouldn't, so she clobbered him too, and stomped off back to the Squintland scriptorium."

Her smile was half twisted—sad and yet satisfied.

"Well, she had it out with the court jester, but then her chancellor, Lord Zach, betrayed everyone to a really bad dragon. Sir Seeley still acted like just a friend, and Princess Temperance forgave him, because she'd missed him like the other half of her heart while he was dead. She went on a few more dates with other subjects of Squintland-Coptopia, because it was dark in her castle at night, but she eventually decided she would rather sleep in the dark and wait until morning when Sir Seeley would bring her the magic morning elixir they both really enjoyed, rather than date with subjects who couldn't hold a candle to Sir Seeley anyway."

Bones' eyes twinkled at him, and she bent to kiss him again, smoothing her fingers over the furrows that grew in his forehead as she recounted her loneliness and her reaction to his stupid faked death. "_The other half of her heart_." She was tearing his heart out.

"And then, there were two really big dragons, and they took many small princes and princesses, and hurt them. Sir Seeley and Princess Temperance captured the dragons, and then found out that while they'd been looking so hard for the dragons, they'd killed some more princes and princesses. Both friends were angry and grieving and hurt, and both felt like if they'd worked harder and faster they might have saved those last four children. They both eventually ended up at the princess' castle, and Princess Temperance was glad that Sir Seeley came over, because she was worried about him. She knew he pushed himself to be the bravest, strongest knight in the land, even though he already was, and that he blamed himself for not finding the dragons earlier. She blamed herself, too, but she also hated seeing her friend so angry and hurt, because sometimes things took longer than either one of them wanted it to. She tried to comfort the knight, and he was actually comforting her too, though it was more like crying your heart out until you're empty, and before you can fill yourself up with good things again, once the poison is gone, but Sir Seeley didn't know that, and thought he'd hurt Princess Temperance. Which he hadn't. Absolutely not."

Bones' look and voice were fierce, and she poked Booth in the shoulder several times to make his point. Figures, he'd fall in love with a woman who told him he hadn't hurt her by poking him, hard.

"Anyway. The knight had to go chase a dragon before the princess could tell him she was fine, and that she loved him too, and that she couldn't stand to see him hurt so much and not be able to comfort him any longer, and in the meantime, she tried to work more Coptopia cases. She sent the knight messages through the king of Coptopia, who was rather confused, but obliged anyway and ignored the fact that the knight and the princess were talking in Seeley-Temperance speak, and not the language of Squintland-Coptopia. She was glad to know Sir Seeley knew things would be alright when he came back, and set to catching dragons."

She bent and kissed him again on the lips, a lingering kiss that made him tingle all over. Smiling at his slight growl as he kissed her back, she kissed him lightly again, then started speaking.

"Well, you know a lot of the rest. But there's a few things that you left out of the rest of the story. First, the knight still had a hard time believing that he hadn't hurt the princess somehow when they found their secret treasure, then lost it again. He knew the princess was weird about treasure to begin with, and was afraid, deep down, that she'd be angry they found it in the first place. But she wasn't—sometimes treasure uncovered itself, when you weren't paying attention, and there's no use in getting mad at the treasure or the person who helped you uncover it.

Princess Temperance was just happy that Sir Seeley came back to uninjured, and that his stupid, chivalrous line was gone, and that it wasn't dark in her castle at night. She was sore for a long time after that second time with the dragon, but also began to think about comforting the knight again. Meanwhile, Sir Seeley was still treating the princess like she was made of glass, even as she went back part time to work chasing dragons and highwaymen. The princess tried to convince him she was fine, but he was having a hard time getting over it. See, the knight was physically stronger than the princess, and had hurt people in the past accidentally when he was going after dragons and highwaymen, but he'd convinced himself that he was to blame, rather than accept that sometimes, accidents happen and treasures are lost—so he convinced himself, even though he was being ridiculous, that he'd hurt the princess too. Which he hadn't. Just like he wasn't to blame for the accidents that happened to people who got in the way when he was battling dragons."

She bent and kissed him, even as she poked him again with her last statement. He was breathless even before she kissed him, her version of his work as a sniper loosening a knot in his gut so quickly he thought he might pass out, the release of tension was so great. He'd wondered what she thought about his '_solo knight days_', sometimes—but if Bones thought it was true, then maybe it was.

"So Princess Temperance tried to comfort Sir Seeley again, but all he could remember was her being hurt, and he wasn't sure he could ever get past that. So she started to tell him a story, to prove that he was wrong. Because the story was true, and sometimes a story is more helpful than a plain explanation. Anthropologically speaking, the resonance of storytelling can reach deeper where a direct conversation can be too painful or confrontational to have."

For the first time, Booth spoke, his voice low and husky, his eyes dark with emotion. "So how does it end?" She shifted, kissed him long and lovingly again, and continued.

"Well, Sir Seeley will believe what Princess Temperance tells him, and the two of them will go back to helping the people in their two kingdoms, riding horses and swinging swords and casting magical spells to find treasure again. And they'll do it even though there are some squires and subjects who don't understand what it's like to chase dragons and highwaymen, or how hard it is to find all those treasures, and who will be jealous because all they see is the knight's shiny sword and the princess' sparkling tiara. That won't matter to the knight and the princess, because they know they love each other, and that they understand how hard it is to do what they do, even if no one else does. And they'll have help from some loyal squires and lords and ladies, and the king of Coptopia and the Duchess of Squintland, because all those people know how hard the knight and the princess work, too. They'll both understand that their love is like a sword that's been tempered, and that despite all the almost destructive work that went into its making, they're now stronger and sharper and better and will slay lots more dragons and highwaymen."

Booth blinked, amazed. She'd been completely out of it when he'd told her this part of the story, and somehow, of course, it was Bones, she'd retained the words exactly and changed them to suit.

Bones' eyes twinkled at him as she smiled, then continued. "And… Sir Seeley will let Princess Temperance comfort him, because he's handsome and strong and a wonderful knight, and has learned to live with and work around the few ghosts the princess hasn't yet managed to help him get rid of, and she wants to comfort him a lot. A real lot. Lots and lots of comforting. Even though the knight has too much jousting memorabilia on his walls, and eats more smoked hams than he should, and never lets her hold the reins on his horse, or borrow his sword. But she knows that he loves her, and that he cares about her courtiers at the Squintland scriptorium, and that he respects her tiara more than anyone else ever has, so smoked hams and no reins notwithstanding, she loves him more than any knight or king or stable boy in the world. And always will."

He looked back at her, and she poked him with her final statement, then kissed him again. She shifted under him, sliding down onto the bed before she re-settled his head on her chest. He curled over and around her, his arms encircling her as he heaved a long sigh, his fears and bad memories in the most part forced to release their clawed grip on his heart. She pulled the covers up over both of them, and stroked her hands through his hair again, as his warm sigh blew hard and long over her skin. Then she finished the story. "Right now, the knight just has to believe what the princess tells him, because she loves him, and would never lie to him."

"She wouldn't," Booth answered, and a smile and look of relief passed over his face, as the rest of his guilt released its cold, clenching grip on his heart and his guts.

"No, she wouldn't," Brennan replied, stroking his head again. "Sweet dreams, valiant knight," she said, kissing the top of his head. He wrapped his arms more closely around her, turning his head to kiss the spot over her heart. "Love you, my princess," he said, then closed his eyes and let her heartbeat lull him to sleep, its light throb and murmur like a musician lightly strumming a lyre.

* * *

The next day, they were wrapping up paperwork in Brennan's office mid-morning when her phone rang. She picked it up with her usual "Brennan," when she heard Lady Caroline speak on the other end of the line.

"Cher," she said, "is Booth there with you?"

"Yes, Caroline, he is," she said, puzzled.

"Close your door and put me on speaker, will you please, darlin'?"

Brennan did so, then rose, saying "hold on, Caroline" as she got up and shut the door to her office. Booth stiffened as he heard who was calling.

"All set, Caroline."

"Children," she said hesitatingly. "I've been trying to get this bastard to take the deal I've been offering, only one life sentence and no death penalty, but he's not going for it. We're going to have to start jury selection three weeks from now."

Sir Seeley and Princess Temperance exchanged a long glance before Brennan spoke again. "You just say when and where, Caroline. We're ready for battle."

"Sure are," said Booth, his voice strong and not choked.

"Are you sure, children?"

Brennan spoke again. "We don't let monsters like him get away with anything, Caroline. We're ready."

Caroline paused and then spoke. "Well then, I'll call his scummy ass lawyer and throw down the gauntlet. We're going in, cheries."

Both partners smiled at Lady Caroline's unwitting evocation of their fairy tale, and Booth spoke. "Bring it on, Caroline. We'll get ourselves armed in the meantime."

On her end of the line, Caroline sighed in relief, and rang off at Booth's words. Those two were like fairy tale heroes; she couldn't have done it.


	19. Chapter 19

"Come to make sure I'm not over at Oakdale, making the trial unnecessary?" Booth asked, his expression still and eyes black as he bounced his stress ball off his desk, the wall, the floor, in rotating, near-constant motion. Like he was juggling, except off multiple surfaces.

"Something like that," the young therapist said, taking the chair opposite Booth's hesitantly. He was glad there was four feet of desk between him and the Agent.

"Nah," Booth said, looking darkly at Sweets. "I'll save that for after, just in case. You've always got to try to do it the right way first, kiddo. You save the big guns for later, when everything else goes to hell."

The therapist managed to stifle a shudder at the sheer menace radiating from the Agent. Usually, Agent Booth merely seemed completely dangerous and not someone to mess with, at all-- he wasn't usually run-in-the-other-direction-as-soon-as-you-see-him outright terrifying. Right now? Outright terrifying. He'd heard up on his floor that all the Agent's jockeys and admins were on the verge of tears-- not because he was hounding them, or being unfair, or in any objective way being too harsh. It was just that with the trial starting in two days, the black energy radiating from him was so scarily... ready for anything, ready to do anything, to Hell with what anyone else thought. People really did scoot to the side when they saw him coming in the halls-- took the next elevator, avoided the coffee room. Except Turner and Charlie, Geier and Cullen. Sweets himself hadn't been out in the field enough to be able to affect the nonchalance of those others-- they at least knew Booth out in the field, or knew personally what it meant to kill or see killing or dying up close and personal. Anyone else? Well, they were probably right to stay out of Agent Booth's way until this was over, one way or the other.

Caroline and he had been talking at lunch about the upcoming case-- though really, there were few left in the building who weren't, at this point. Between Agent Booth's unit being called "_The Black Hole_" and the fact that he and Dr. Brennan had rather spectacularly conducted a chase over four city blocks before apprehending another child murderer last week, with Dr. Brennan getting in the decisive punch that felled the perpetrator-- it was rather hard for anyone at the Hoover to think of anything but Agent Booth or Dr. Brennan. Caroline finished jury selection last week, and they'd done preliminary motions that morning. She wasn't happy about some of the ways the judge ruled on some of the motions, saying only "I'm going to have to get creative, and I hate being creative, I'm too damned old for it." Which had brought Sweets down to Booth's office toward the end of the day.

"Caroline said she wasn't pleased with some of the judge's rulings," he offered. There'd been no pretense of his former patients resuming therapy with him-- and he'd been lucky enough to profile this last case with them, to good effect. He just hoped he could continue to make that transition to colleague. So far, the partners seemed to be letting him.

Booth looked at him evenly, then said "No, she wasn't. Neither were Bones or I, particularly, but the four of us have already discussed how to approach the case from multiple angles. Caroline's just mad because, well, the judge's rulings were shitty and the defense counsel's a slimebucket, and because he's allowing press in the court room."

The air in the room noticeably darkened and cooled. Was a black hole cold? Dr. Hodgins would know. He knew Agent Booth had no plans to testify, but no one was going to argue with his intent to be present through the entire trial's preparation, from the meetings with Caroline, Agent Turner, and Dr. Brennan all the way through the end. But press, when there'd been enough press coverage already? People were lucky Agent Booth's bullpen hadn't already imploded from the weight of his anger. Black holes sucked in everything around them until they disappeared, right? He'd have to ask Dr. Hodgins. Just not with Booth around.

"Ah," he said, for lack of some better response. "That would be distressing."

"That's one way of putting it."

Booth continued to bounce and catch his stress ball as he looked straight at the therapist, and Sweets wondered if Agent Booth was aware that he caught the ball, every single time, without looking at it. Previously, he thought the ball was a nervous tic or a behavior intended to annoy the observer, but now as he watched, he realized it was actually a way for the Agent to keep his reflexes steady and train his attention to track multiple sources of information from multiple directions. The therapist stifled another shudder at what it meant that the Agent caught and tossed the ball without looking ambidextrously, and never dropped the ball at all. He'd always been too afraid of the Agent to look up his gun range scores or his hand-to-hand files. He didn't want to know how much it would hurt in advance if the Agent ever decided Sweets needed hurting.

"Well... I guess I wanted to let you know that a number of people expressed an interest in being there to ... lend moral support but I wasn't sure what you and Dr. Brennan preferred, so I thought I would ask you and then spread whatever word was alright with you."

Booth's dark expression lightened ever so slightly, like a sliver of moon at the edge of the eclipse. "Well, I appreciate that. We both do. And hey, the more Bureau folks, the fewer members of the press they can shove in. Fill up the stands with spectators for our side, right?"

"Right," said the therapist, relieved that the conversation was going well. "Why was Caroline so upset about the rulings, then?"

Booth looked at him a long moment before answering. "She was hoping to go right at the case with siege towers, rather than pick the defendants' guards off the ramparts while we tunneled up behind him to take him from inside his own case. Caroline doesn't like tunneling-- she wants a head-on attack, fireworks and battering rams and all that stuff."

Sweets blinked a bit at the medieval warfare analogy, but it fit. Caroline did prefer to charge right at the target, in a manner of speaking. Not that her skills lacked finesse, but her manner of presenting the case for the prosecution so that the juries agreed that the most natural, logical conclusion was to find for the government relied more on a straightforward view of the evidence.

"I could see that bothering her," the therapist offered. "Though I'm sure she doesn't give herself enough credit."

Booth snorted. "She's not leaving room for credit. We've got all the possible means of attack and counterattack already planned." He was lost in thought for a moment, grim and yet satisfied.

Sweets didn't dare ask what happened if all the best-laid plans of Booth and Brennan fell through. He was pretty sure that they wouldn't, but this was actually Turner and Brennan, and Sweets had no idea how Turner would hold up under pressure. Booth would just be there, keeping vigil, watching Brennan, and warning off all comers until it was over.

Suddenly, though, the Black Hole lightened-- turned back into the supernova whose collapse led to its creation. Sweets didn't need to turn around that those strong, sure steps from behind him were Dr. Brennan-- Agent Booth's whole change in posture and affect were astonishing, and Sweets felt himself practically pushed away from the gravity field they put off as Dr. Brennan came in and sat on the edge of Booth's desk, close enough that if he wanted to, he could pull her into his lap. Not that he would-- they'd been very appropriate. But there was no doubt in anyone's mind that the two partners were absolutely, completely, determinedly united.

"Hello, Lance," Dr. Brennan said, smiling slightly. "What brings you down to The Black Hole?"

Sweets startled, and Booth smirked. "Yeah, Sweets actually braved the dark lair of Sir Broody to see if we were up for the gallery being packed from the Hoover."

"That would be nice," she replied, then turned to smile at Booth. "How many people did you make cry today?"

He tipped his head, thinking seriously. "Only two, I think, but they always wait until my back is turned, so all I hear is the sniffles. But everyone else called in sick or found things they needed to do at the library, or out in the field, or down in Evidence. It's been really good for department productivity."

"You... you know?" Sweets stuttered.

Booth shot him a dark grin. Not malevolent, just dark. "Special Agent In Charge, Sweets," he said, pointing to his nameplate. "I know most things. Like I said. Helps productivity. Though my department budget for Kleenex is going to be through the roof until the trial's over."

"Okay..." he said, then watched as Booth's attention shifted again to Brennan. Brennan looked at their former therapist, then said "We would be glad for the support of whomever has time," smiled lightly, and turned back to Booth. "Supper?" she said. "There's a new Indian place around the corner Ange says has great dosas."

Booth lit up like the sun, then said "First time you've come to drag me out of my office for food."

Brennan chuckled as her partner stood. "Well, there's a first time for everything. Just don't think I'm going to help you on with your jacket-- you're too damned tall."

"See you," Booth said, shooting Lance a salute as he walked out a half pace behind Brennan, his hand at her back as always. Definitely their own gravitational field. Wasn't there something called a binary star? He needed to invite Dr. Hodgins to lunch.

* * *

The partners agreed, without discussing it at length that despite the essential conclusion of their fairy tale, it wouldn't really be over until the trial was. Both had too many concerns for themselves or the other to go beyond physical comfort until then. Brennan noted wryly "It's like those stories where the knight undergoes a fasting vigil before battle..." only to have Booth agree, then crack a joke about "Yeah, but there's going to be a hell of a feast afterward," as he waggled his eyebrows.

Brennan switched her hips as she walked off to the kitchen. "All the smoked hams you can eat," she said as she grinned over her shoulder.

* * *

"I suggest to you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that this is a case where my client, an upstanding member of the general and medical communities, has been victimized by a justice system gone not only amok, but vindictive. You will hear evidence from the prosecution that amounts to no more than bare speculation and conjecture linking my client to these horrific, horrific crimes-- and how in the aftermath of my client's arrest, the prosecution in this case did everything it could to keep my client as the scapegoat, because they had no other leads on this case, because the press was hounding them before the case was quote unquote solved, and because they had a personal vendetta on behalf of one of their key witnesses, who had a terrible accident, that was in no way was the fault of my client. When you are done hearing the evidence in this case, you will be convinced, beyond a reasonable doubt, that my client had nothing to do with these murders, and that this prosecution is a woeful miscarriage of justice."

As defense counsel concluded his opening statement with the phrase "_miscarriage of justice_," Sweets reflected that you could hear all the air being sucked out of the courtroom by the FBI and Jeffersonian spectators who had, indeed, filled almost every seat in the courtroom, so that there was only room for a half dozen members of the press. The spectators had, as a one, arrived long before the courtroom was open, lining up in an orderly fashion so closely blocking the courtroom's entrance that the press found themselves at the back of the line, incapable of pushing through. There had been strong protest to the judge, but for once, he was unsympathetic, telling them that "I said you could attend. I made no promise there would be room."

He looked over at Booth, Brennan and Turner, who sat behind Caroline and in a diagonal line behind the defendant-- who had not even acknowledged their presence in the courtroom, and sat, seemingly relaxed, as he looked put upon and yet dignified all during his opening statement. He was well-dressed in his suit, and uncuffed as was the custom in most criminal cases, even the most serious ones-- the risk of tainting the jury against the defendant's constitutional rights was too high. Sweets was somewhat surprised at the three's seating arrangement. Turner sat between Brennan and the defendant, not Booth, who sat on the other side of his partner, both their faces seemingly calm and impassive. Sweets wondered at the arrangement, then tipped his head and looked again. Ah. Agent Booth had a clearer line of fire on the defendant from where he was sitting. He shuddered. Agents were not supposed to bring their guns into the courtroom-- but he was certain that such a custom wouldn't stop Agent Booth. Somehow, he'd tamped down his black mood, seeming to revert to merely his usual intimidating dangerousness, but the therapist knew it was just out of view, somewhere. Too, Max Keenan sat just behind Agent Booth and his daughter, his face deceptively affable-- some other time, the therapist might not be sure who would be worse, defending Brennan. This time, there was no question. It would be Booth.

Caroline's opening statement seemed to have anticipated this line of argument, though she had the burden of going first, as always in criminal cases. The prosecutor predicted that "defense counsel will make accusations of bias by individual witnesses, the agencies involved in this case, hell, even little old me," then proceeded to predict that "by the time you are done hearing my primary evidence, even before the defense puts its case on, and doesn't just take shots at my witnesses, there will be no doubt in your mind that the case against that man there is rock solid-- on such a firm and fortified foundation that there is no accusation of bias, nor insinuation of unconscious revision, that could possibly undermine the solidity of the evidence against the defendant. The evidence will speak for itself, ladies and gentlemen, whatever you think of my witnesses." With her characteristic Caroline flair, however, she also predicted with a sparkle in her eye that "I think you'll like my witnesses, too, whatever whatever seemingly magical words and spells counsel tries to cast in his attempts to distract you from his client's unmistakable guilt."

The case started slowly but gruesomely. Dr. Hodgins testified to the lack of particulates on each body, and how the fact that the bodies were sterilized was an actual clue, "because it had to be done by someone who had the knowledge to remove all trace of bacteria, dirt, or other material from a body that was going to be cut into. And as usual, the Bureau's evidence team did a meticulous job in gathering evidence. My own inspections of later crime scenes as more victims appeared confirmed that."

The responding officers to the scenes testified to their findings and why they'd called in the FBI.

FBI Evidence Tech Agent Geier, who always headed the Major Crimes Unit evidence team, testified as to how he secured the scene and why, also displaying the wide-angle photos of the bodies at the scene. The jurors cringed to a one.

"I've been working with the team at the Jeffersonian for four years and am aware of their requirements for securing a scene," Geier said. "I must admit that I've learned from them, and that I gather more evidence that yields quicker, faster results than previously. I've never had cause to doubt their techniques. In this case, given the apparently pristine condition of the body, I took full swabs of the surfaces around the victims' bodies and the skin of the victims themselves because as Dr. Hodgins testified, and in my own experience, the lack of particulates can be as telling as any that might be present."

Angela testified briefly to how she used dental records and missing persons' reports to identify the victims-- facts that were not really in issue, but as Caroline said during trial preparation, "_That jury's not going to have any doubt whatsoever that this was worked up totally, done by the book-- the one you squints all rewrote and made better before this case ever came along_."

Though Cam would normally testify next, the prosecution's plan to sap the defense from within led Caroline to mix up the order she usually used. To this point, defense counsel's cross examinations had been essentially cursory. He'd tried to make Jack and Agent Geier look bad, but both remained unflappable on the stand, and were allowed by the judge to answer too-terse leading questions in detail, thereby reinforcing their prior testimony in front of the jury. Though the two often butted heads since they shared the same cantankerous demeanor out in the field, when it came to the case, their similar minds were in parallel, not competition.

Turner was next. When the Agent got up to testify after the break, Max Keenan, who'd shifted to sit behind him, stood and sat next to his daughter. Dr. Hodgins, Sweets, Angela and Cam shifted in the rest of the row so as to save him a seat when Turner stepped down from the stand. Max's visage remained affable, but Sweets was nonetheless sure that it was only the fact that he'd barely escaped murder charges the last time that kept him in line. That, and whatever agreement he and Booth made about dealing with any active danger to Brennan, or allowing the defendant to live through the trial. Who knew? He'd heard something about Max using his jail contacts to have someone killed.

Cullen was right, Sweets reflected, as Agent Turner began. "_Henry's great on the stand. Calm and dignified, reasonable and fatherly. That salt and pepper of his and his stern but fatherly look wins the ladies all over, and he's cool under pressure. The guys like him too, he's not a hothead, and he's not out to throw his weight around either. Comes across as a neighborly guy, the kind of man you want as your daughter's father-in-law_."

Brennan remained still and attentive throughout Turner's testimony, as he walked the jury through the initial parts of the investigation, the frustrating lack of leads, the admitted pressure the entire team felt to solve the case. "We were worried that the press would only encourage the murderer, since the coverage was so spectacular. We asked that they tone down the reports, in order to prevent the murderer from becoming emboldened, but unfortunately there were times when our ability to process a scene was delayed because there were so many news vans and reporters clamoring for comment."

He then walked the jury through his and Brennan's investigation, their interviews of witnesses, his observations of the team's work at the lab, and his own impressions of where the evidence might lead. He admitted freely that "Unfortunately, though I've been doing this almost twenty years, I was totally stumped."

Caroline pounced, on her own witness. "So what was it that made you un-stumped?"

Turner responded gravely. "Dr. Brennan had an insight... well, a recollection of something she'd seen as she re-inspected the photographs of the incisions on each of the victims. After comparing her recollection to the photographs of the bodies and explaining her conclusions to me, I agreed that the incisions were characteristic of those the defendant was known for, and we went to apprehend the defendant."

"Now, you're not a doctor, Agent Turner, are you?"

He shook his head. "No."

"Then how could you agree with what Dr. Brennan had to tell you?"

He responded gravely. "She explained the reasons for her conclusions, pointed out the facts that supported them, and allowed me to inspect the evidence. After I did so, I agreed."

"So your determination to arrest the defendant was based on the findings and conclusions formed by Dr. Brennan?"

"Correct."

"Was there anything else that supported your conclusion that the defendant was, in fact, the murderer in this case?"

"Yes. The defendant's conduct after his arrest, the manner in which he resisted arrest, and the tools and sterilization equipment found in his storage unit all corroborated Dr. Brennan's conclusion. I believe there was some other evidence from the Jeffersonian team, but I was occupied with other aspects of the investigation by that point, and merely incorporated Dr. Saroyan's findings and evidence into the file."

"You said the defendant resisted arrest?"

Defense counsel jumped up and objected. After a sidebar, Caroline was allowed to re-pose the question.

"You said that the defendant's resisting arrest affected your conclusion that the defendant was, in fact, the murderer?"

Turner nodded gravely. "Yes. He not only resisted arrest before Dr. Brennan and I subdued him and cuffed him, but even after he was cuffed and being brought down the stairs by two agents, attempted to cause maximum harm to everyone around him. In fact, Dr. Brennan suffered a serious injury during the course of the defendant's attempt to escape."

"And how did that affect your conclusion?"

Turner looked sad. "I've been doing this almost twenty years. Every single time some suspect reacts like that, it's been because they are furious at being caught-- not because they are angry at being arrested. Innocent people just don't try to flee when they've already been cuffed, and they certainly don't try to take out members of the arrest team."

"When did the defendant's behavior affect your conclusion?"

"As soon as he broke free, in fact before Dr. Brennan knew she was hurt."

"And were there other events after that which affected your conclusion of the defendant's guilt?"

"Confirmed, yes."

Defense counsel tried to have a field day when Caroline finished-- but Turner, too, remained unflappable. The only admission he gained from all Turner's testimony was Turner's agreement that the initial arrest hinged on Brennan's discovery of the clue prompting the arrest-- and that everything discovered thereafter followed the defendant's attempt at escape.

Turner stepped down just at lunch, and the judge called a recess. Sweets watched as he, Booth, Brennan and Caroline repaired to a conference room, and Booth's medieval fortess analogy came to mind. "_Planning the decisive push_," he thought to himself.

* * *

Bones took the stand and gave her own version of events, her conclusions from the evidence, her observations and opinions up to the point at which she made her discovery. Booth and Turner, sitting together, with Max sitting behind them, seemed calm and collected. Booth, however, kept one eye on Bones and one on the murderer. To this point, he'd been a cool customer, looking put-upon and yet innocent, and Booth had to hand it to the sonofabitch. If it weren't Bones on the other side of the stand, he might well get away with it. His lawyer was clever, and the case _was_ kind of shaky, since it all hinged on Bones. But she was ready, and determined more than anything not to let the murderer do anything less than pay with everything the system could throw at him.

Caroline finally came to the first wave of her final assault.

"Now, Doctor, you were here when Agent Turner testified that there was some conclusion you made based on some ... recollection ... that allowed you to determine that the defendant there was the murderer?"

"That's correct," Bones replied calmly.

"What was that recollection?"

Bones went on to testify about the conference she'd gone to and her observations of the defendant at the presentation he'd made.

"And how did you recall that, Dr. Brennan? You said it was months ago."

"I have an eidetic or photographic memory. It took me a while to make the connection, but after I looked at all the victims' initial incisions, something triggered the memory."

Caroline again displayed skepticism of her own witness. "What was that something?"

Bones shook her head. "I don't really know. All I know is I was looking again at the incisions, hoping I'd see something new, so I put them all up on my computer screen so I could look at them side-by-side. When I saw them, I could tell they were completely identical, so we were dealing with only one murderer-- and then I had a flash of recollection of the defendant's surgical technique as displayed at the conference, compared that technique against the photographs, and determined that they were one and the same."

There was a moment of silence in the courtroom, which Caroline drew out a bit longer.

"So you expect this jury to convict the defendant because you remembered something you saw three months before when it's already been established that you were hurt during his apprehension, and have every possible reason to hold that against the defendant?"

"No, I don't," Bones replied. "I wouldn't believe me, either. But... surgery is a manual art, and incisions are like signatures. You can compare signatures-- so I did. The conference gave out DVDs of the sessions-- they were professionally filmed. The defendant made an identical type of incision during his demonstration, and it was captured on film. I checked my memory against the DVD, showed the image to Agent Turner, and he agreed that they were the same as the still photographs of the incisions I'd been reviewing. At that point, we determined to apprehend the defendant."

Booth was watching the defendant carefully. As Bones said the words '_DVDs of the sessions_,' the muscle between the defendant's shoulder blades jumped. It was enough of a telltale for Booth. He shifted his attention completely from Brennan to the defendant, nudging Turner below the bar to keep a watch out for Brennan while he watched the murderer.

The courtroom had become even more still, and the jury was riveted by the testimony Bones was giving, their gazes torn between the defendant and the anthropologist. Caroline, done drawing out the suspense, asked one last skeptical question.

"That's all well and good, Dr. Brennan, but how are we supposed to know that you looked at those DVDs before you and Agent Turner arrested the defendant, and didn't just go back and figure it out after he was arrested and you were already hurt?"

Bones snorted bitterly, but answered. "Well, first, I was in the hospital, so I couldn't have. But in any event-- we had a severe security breach at the lab half a year ago, and both physical and data security measures were put in place in order to allow the Institute to protect against the erasure of data, as well as to record all accessing of data, so that in the event another breach took place at all, it would be possible to quickly reconstruct who and what had accessed the system. I worked with Dr. Saroyan, the chief of the Medico-Legal lab, as to what precautions should be taken, but neither of us has the full security key to access those records. It requires myself, Dr. Saroyan, and the head of Information Technology to simultaneously access those records with a series of passwords-- thus rendering it nearly impossible to erase or alter those records. In addition, the passwords can only be entered on a computer monitored by security cameras, so that such access is filmed and archived by Security. Dr. Saroyan and the head of Information Technology, Mr. Martin, who's with us today," she said, nodding at the serious man sitting next to Cam, "can testify as to when and where I accessed that DVD and those photos, and confirm that the security measures were not tampered with. Office Tarbel, sitting next to Dr. Saroyan," she continued, "can testify to the security films."

She paused, then looked back at Caroline. "I wouldn't trust me, but that's what the films and records are for. It's unnecessary to believe my motivations. Just look at the data access records."

Booth watched as the muscle between the defendant's shoulders twitched again, and spared a quick glance at Max, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

Caroline paused for effect, then said "Thank you, doctor. Now, just one last line of questioning. You said there were DVDs that you compared with the photos?"

"That's correct," said Bones gravely.

Caroline pointed a remote control at the large-screen monitor set up next to the stand. "And is this the telltale image from that DVD?" she asked, motioning with her pointer at the image on screen.

"It is."

Caroline pressed the remote again, and six close up photographs of the initial incisions from each of the victims came up on the split screen with the DVD image.

"Are these six," the prosecutor said, motioning again with her pointer, "the victim incisions you mentioned?"

"They are."

Caroline paused again and looked across the courtroom at the defendant and then back to the jury. "Are these photographs what you used to make the comparison you said you showed Agent Turner?"

Bones agreed, and after being given permission by the judge to take Caroline's pointer and come down off the stand, she showed the jury how the incisions were identical.

There was an unspoken shift in demeanor, a relieved one, among the Bureau and Jeffersonian spectators-- the moment when people experienced in the legal system can tell that a key point in the trial has been turned, and that a crucial decision has been reached. A decision in their favor. The jury's faces all evinced understanding and complete acceptance of Bones' explanation.

Defense counsel felt the shift-- the murderer, too. Booth could tell he was seething with fury under his seemingly calm exterior, and the muscles all along his spine were tensed, ready to spring. Booth himself had been ready to spring the whole hour and a half Bones sat on the stand. The judge looked at the clock, said "it's time for afternoon break, cross will begin in twenty minutes," and excused Bones from the stand.

It was too much for the murderer. As Bones rose from her seat and proceeded toward the gap between the counsel tables through which she'd have to pass in order to return to her seat, the murderer snapped. Lacking anything but the letter opener his counsel used to open sealed evidence envelopes earlier that day, he seized it and lunged over the table, his fury unleashed now that he knew that he'd lost.

There was a uniform cry from the jury, a shouted "Get Down!" from Turner and Cullen and Charlie, the court officers' echoes just seconds behind, and the sound of a table being knocked over as Bones pulled Caroline's table over and yanked the prosecutor down with her. But before all those noises there was the sound of one bullet leaving a gun, the splatter of blood and brain matter, and the barely slowed thud of a bullet into the wall on the other side of the exit wound-- the wound left in the wake of a bullet that went squarely through the defendant's temples as he lunged toward the anthropologist, a bullet released by the gun squarely leveled at him in Booth's outstretched right arm.

Booth hopped the bar in what seemed like slow motion to everyone watching, looked for a moment at the murderer as his body fell to the floor, and then ducked around the counsel table, .45 still in hand.

"All set, Bones," he said, "told you I would come come loaded for dragons."

Caroline struggled up on her own and regarded the children, knowing she was missing something much deeper running between them than their odd conversation. "Cherie, don't you mean loaded for bear?"

Seriously, the partners looked back at her, Bones providing the response. "No. He meant loaded for dragons, Caroline. Definitely dragons."

And with that, Booth sheathed his weapon, took Bones' arm, and steered her out of the courtroom. The late afternoon sun glinted through the windows off the barette Brennan wore onto the stand, to keep the hair off her face as she testified. It almost shone like a diamond tiara, Sweets thought, as he watched the pair sweep out of the room like the king and queen of them all.


	20. Chapter 20

Of course, the partners didn't go far. Rather, they proceeded to the benches directly across from the doors of the courtroom and sat, holding hands as they waited. A minute later, a court officer stuck his head out of the doors, nodded as Booth did in return, then ducked back inside. Not long thereafter, the chief court officer and a federal marshal approached them.

"You get him?" the chief court officer asked as the marshal looked on.

"Yep," answered Booth. "But I put a hole in your wall and got brains on your rug."

The marshal barked an ironic laugh. "We'll send you the bill." He then turned to Brennan, amazed by her mostly unruffled demeanor. "What did he go after you with?"

"A letter opener."

The chief court officer looked at Booth again, shaking his head. "Well, I'm glad you came to me about that rat at Oakdale- I can't let just anyone carry inside the courtroom, but you sure as hell got him faster than any of my guys."

"Well, I appreciate the courtesy," Booth said solemnly.

The marshal chimed in then. "How'd you get a rat to drop you a dime like that anyway?"

Booth shook his head. "That would be compromising my sources. And you confirmed it without me anyway."

Both officers nodded agreement, but still looked amazed that an FBI agent would manage to convince some prisoner at the maximum security facility to rat out someone who was planning on going after the agent's girlfriend.

"Well," said the chief, "D.C. cops and more marshals will be hear soon, so as soon as we can look at the closed circuit films we can get you guys out of here."

The partners both nodded as Brennan quietly thanked them. They watched the two walk off, and when they were alone again, Booth stood, pulled Brennan up with him, and clasped her tightly to him, the two of them exchanging a hungry, passionate kiss, one filled with relief. It was over, and not without regrets, but it was over, regardless.

* * *

Later that day, Cullen marveled with Caroline.

"I've been doing this too many years now," he said, shaking his head, "but that's the first time every single eyewitness has given the exact same statement, from judge and jurors, spectators to press. Every single one of them swears Booth didn't stand, much less draw, until after that bastard was out of the chair and had that letter opener in his hand. It's like the whole courtroom was in slow-mo for those few seconds."

Caroline nodded agreement. "I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't watched that film with you all. I mean, I knew the boy was supposed to be faster than the whole damned O.K. Corral all put together, but that, Sam…"

"Lance was muttering something about gravitational singularities and no time, mass or density or something squinty like that—I didn't get it," Cullen responded.

Caroline took a long sip of her coffee. "You ever see those Errol Flynn movies, Robin Hood and Captain Blood, when he's fighting with Basil Rathbone? There are points when you can't even see the swords, they're fighting so fast."

Sam grunted agreement. "You had to slow down that film to what, one-eighth speed to tell he didn't already have it unholstered and the safety off."

Caroline took another contemplative sip. "I've been doing this as long as you, and I've never had anyone come me or any of my witnesses like that before. It's a good thing that boy's got good reflexes—although that girl was pretty damned fast, too. Didn't even know who'd grabbed me until she had me down behind that table. Quite a pair, those two."

"No question," Sam said reflectively.

Caroline took one last slurp, set her mug in the sink, and said "Well, I'm off. I'm going to take my tired old ass home and drink something a whole lot stronger than coffee."

"See you," Sam Cullen murmured, drinking down the rest of his mug as he sat, thinking some more.

Caroline's swashbuckling analogy was true, as far as it went. The film did show that Booth only unholstered and pulled back the safety after the murderer lunged. He knew his duty—unlike when he was a sniper when it would have been a dereliction of duty to not keep the trigger half-depressed at all times, if he'd done so this time, the shooting could have _only_ been called premeditated murder, rather than a justifiable and proportionate response. Everyone in that courtroom had no doubt whatsoever that the murderer was going to kill Brennan in front of a room full of witnesses. But Sam had been sitting slightly behind and on a diagonal from Booth, and the speed with which he'd responded exceeded Caroline's analogy of the O.K. Corral.

It was something different than Old West gunslingers. Something entirely-- much more primal. Sam and his wife went on safari for their twenty-fifth anniversary. They'd pulled to the side of the road in their jeeps to watch a herd of antelope grazing on a wide swath of grass when all of a sudden, Hell broke loose. Three lionesses, coming from nowhere, flushed and panicked the herd, driving the herdbeasts between them toward a large water hole and a comparatively thick stand of trees, bordered by heavy brush. The brush wasn't so heavy that some enterprising antelope might not leap through and make an escape, rather than crash into a tree or be slowed by the water. The bulk of the herd followed herd-mind, however, and ran together in a panic toward the lionesses' intended destination. Or so it seemed-- until one young, large, healthy buck broke from the herd and made for the brush.

The young buck fell. It was only after the buck was down, disappeared into the brush, that the male lion emerged, roaring, to let his lionesses know he'd captured their real quarry—not the flock heading in the direction Sam and his wife expected would lead to many beasts' capture—but one buck so large it would feed the whole pride for as much as a week.

It was only later that night when they were back at the camp that Sam saw the photos and films the safari's official photographer took, and understood all of what happened.

"_I've been doing this five years now, and I'm usually pretty good about guessing where the male's going to lie in wait, when it's a small pride with not quite enough lionesses for the male to stay back and lounge around"_ he'd said, before projecting the images onto the sheet hung over a rope in the common area between all their tents.

"_The male lion may get there hours before the lionesses do, picking his waiting place so that the herd won't catch his scent. He stays totally still, so there's nothing to tip the herd off that he's lying in wait until they're almost past him—at which point he springs, catches that one beast whose panic is so strong that it breaks the course the lionesses seem to set for the rest of the herd. Except… they're actually counting on one breaking free from the herd—one beast that thinks it's strong enough to escape from the fate the flanking lionesses are setting."_

From where Sam was sitting-- he knew it. Booth had been ready for whatever the defendant might do the entire hour and a half his partner was on the stand. He was pretty sure that Turner and Caroline were only somewhat aware of their flanking lioness status, and Sam thought back to something else that photographer said.

"_One lioness always brings up the rear, to back up the male. It's not usually necessary, but sometimes it happens, and between the two of them, they always bring down the prey, once the male's got his claws in the beast."_

Cullen had watched the film three or four more times at different speeds, closing and opening the views to see every angle so he would know everything that did or could have possibly happened. He knew Booth's reaction was justified and proportionate, but he wanted to be able to say later, without any question, that the murderer was going for Brennan and had to be stopped.

Brennan had moved astonishingly quickly—tossing that table and pulling Caroline down faster than most if not all of his other agents would—but there was also something he thought only he noticed. Everyone else watching the films was focused on Booth. But Sam remembered instinctively—lionesses bring up the rear. So he wasn't surprised to see when he slowed down the film, that as soon as Brennan made sure Caroline was securely down behind the table, she pulled a black widow from her ankle and bobbed up just far enough over the edge of the table to make sure Booth's bullet—Booth's claws—struck home. Sam had no doubt that her own claws would have struck home that next moment if Booth's claws only grazed the beast, not stopped him.

Neither planned what had happened today, in the premeditated, legal sense of the word. But like all good hunters, they were ready for anything. Booth wasn't likely to miss, but if he had, he was well-matched in his mate. Brennan had been ready to finish flushing the beast, and to take him down for the sake of the rest of the pride.


	21. Chapter 21

It wasn't too much later than their usual long day when they got home. Both had forborne the usual and necessary questioning until the security films were reviewed, and there was almost no question once the judge himself pronounced that "that bastard would have killed her if he'd gotten another five steps."

Brennan locked up behind them after Booth took her coat and bag. She bent then to take off the Black Widow and ankle holster, then handed the weapon, butt-first and safety on, to her partner. With a sigh and a rolling shrug of her shoulders, she went to the bedroom, tossing most of her clothes in a negligent pile. Booth's own things followed hers as she finished setting her jewelry on the bureau.

"Did you already tell Cam you wouldn't be in tomorrow?" he asked, wrapping his arms around her waist as she stood with her back to him.

She nodded, turning to embrace him and return. "You?"

"Sam and Henry are going to cover anything that comes up."

Her response was non-verbal. Pulling him closer, she lay her head over his heart and breathed his scent in. He clasped her in return, his eyes closed as he felt her chest rise and fall against his.

It could have been minutes or hours as they absorbed the other's presence, time passing in heartbeats and breaths rather than the usual measures. She looked up at him first, tracing the line of his jaw with her hand, but he followed her assuredly, sliding one hand from her back to her nape, and cradling her head as he kissed her, his tongue seeking her own.

They finished undressing until each was bare to the other, then made their way to the bed. Their trials over for now, each sought the release that comes after a climax—the draining of emotional tension needed to sustain a warrior through a hard-fought battle.

He tasted her like she was honey. She took him into her mouth as if he was air. His body—skin, hands and breath on her warmed her all the way through, and her sighs and smiles threw light on the dark spaces he still bore within.

When he at last entered her—when she at last took him in—that same sense since they had at the start of it all of each fitting the other now recovered. She cried out as he came home to her, his own call of surprise as she welcomed him joining her own.

He took his time, now that they had it. When before it was frantic, now it was languid. When before it was forceful, now he was gentle. But it was still passionate—that was the same. The first time, each had things to forget. This time, though the cause for it all was bittersweet, each committed to memory the other's response.

His first release soon followed hers—they slept until he woke to her questing fingers exploring his body, learning all over again each bone and muscle, each clear or scarred patch of skin. He had his own battle scars, she knew, though he counted his less than her own. As she hovered over him, coaxing his length to quick attention with her firm, assured hands, he teased her in turn, his own hands' light touch on her breasts and nipples teasing her until it became a smiling test of endurance—each pushing the other. Her mouth on his length sucked and pressed on him as his fingers in her twisted and curled. When he could stand it no longer, he pulled her away from him with a groan, coaxing her to a new climax with his hands even as he shifted position.

She was still clenching and screaming out "Seeley!" as he thrust himself home, her rippling flood pulling him further inside. She rode out her climax as he slowly rocked into her, then pulled him close to caress his face and return his own wondering gaze.

He shifted atop her again, and anticipating the slow pace he wanted to set, closed her legs around his length as he straddled her, their chests—their foreheads—their lips in almost as near constant-contact as his slow shallow strokes and her own slow undulations. At last, with a sudden clench of her thighs, a quick buck of her hips and a tight squeeze of her walls, his orgasm was pulled from him, and he let out a surprised shout—her own following his in the wake of his forceful pulsing inside her.

She slept curled in the curve of his body, and woke to the strokes of his tongue in time to his thrusting heat from behind into her core. He rediscovered how a certain pass of his fingers over her breasts and her nipples in time with his strokes would make her come time and again, until her shuddering walls and moans of completion each time he filled her finally pulled him over the edge he kept pushing her from.

It was hours the first time they joined, needy and desperate, and this time it was hours again, but unhurried and loving ones. She straddled him as he sat, sucking and fondling her breasts. She pleasured him again with her mouth until he came, losing control in her mouth, then again as she drew him back to attention—attention solely on her—the slow firm work of her tongue and cheeks on him leaving him dazed. He re-explored each possible center of pleasure with fingers and lips, until she collapsed with whimpering, trembling pleasure at the sensations only he brought out in her—then he moaned in shock and surprise as she returned each exploration. Her boldness compared with past lovers almost eclipsed the wholly unexpected release in him her actions provoked.

At last, eyes locked, chests clasped and hearts pounding together, they joined one last time, finally sated.

They slept, her body curled over his, her weight like a gossamer robe, her breath whiffling over his chest like a breeze over a meadow of flowers, the warmth of her body like sunlight after cold rain.


	22. Chapter 22

"Bren, sweetie, how are you?" Angela asked, two days after the trial.

Brennan looked up from her computer in her office, waving her friend in and smiling.

"Okay, really," she said, her voice calm and content.

"Did you two… are you two okay?" Angela asked, concerned by what Booth had to do to bring this whole saga to a close.

Brennan smiled reassuringly. "We're fine. More than fine. Thanks, Angela—really."

Angela sighed in relief, regarding her friend. There was some weight off her shoulders, more light in her smile, and no wonder, really. Regarding her, and noting as she did so Brennan's amused allowance of her regard, Angela's eye caught something new.

"Bren, sweetie—why do you have an armored knight on a horse figurine on your desk?"

Brennan smiled fondly but mysteriously. "It's a long story, Angela."

* * *

Booth looked up at the knock on his door two days after the trial.

"Sam, hi, come in," he said, much of the formality with his boss now dispelled by the events taking place during the progress of the tale.

"Just wanted to let you know there won't be any further review of what happened," Cullen supplied.

Booth gave him a serious nod. "Glad to hear it," was his only response.

"How's Dr. Brennan?" Cullen then inquired.

The tough agent beamed like the sun. "She's fine. Really."

"I'm glad to hear it," he replied, then turned slightly to leave. He stopped half through his turn, something catching his eye.

"Um… Booth. Why is there a rhinestone tiara next to your autographed Bobby Orr championship puck?"

Booth turned to look at the sideboard where his most prized jousting memorabilia was displayed, then looked back at his boss. With a small and mysterious smile, he said "It's a long story."

"Something to do with Marco and Polo?" Cullen asked, thinking back to the start of this all.

Booth shot him a grin. "Something like that… except longer ago, and further away."


	23. Chapter 23

What is a fairy-tale ending? One where the knight and the princess ride off on his horse into the sunset after the knight saves the princess from the dragon? One where the good sorceress rescues the noble knight and leads him out of the ghost-filled, darkened dungeon? A royal wedding with loving subjects attending? The birth of an heir, with only good fairies to bestow natal blessings?

Or is it something different? Something that departs from the traditional endings the audience seems to expect? Is it enough to know that the heroes emerge from their trials master and mistress of their own destinies? Does it mean that through valiant efforts, likewise reduced to further story and song, the lovers and friends, princess and knight, warriors and fighters for good at last vanquish all the ghosts, bad dreams, dragons and highwaymen?

Or does it just mean that the part of the scroll being read or the ballad being sung comes to an end—the words and images wrought by the author or sung the troubadour yielding to silence that can be filled again, in some other time, some other place, by some other bard? The last words and notes of the tale, the story, the saga fade into nothingness, releasing you to dream your own magical true dreams of the heroes' further adventures--releasing you to tell new tales that start where the old ones left off.

Perhaps the best kind of fairy tale is the one with multiple chapters told by multiple tellers, each seperate piece weaving into a velvet and jeweled quilt which can be pieced into a tapestry that tells the best of all possible tales: a family dynasty, an epic tale of royal triumph over life's inevitable trials, through love and courage, friendship and strength. With lots of smoked hams, and princesses taking the reins.


	24. Chapter 24

"There's no way to guarantee a happily ever after," Booth said, his voice firm and gaze keen and sharp, "no magical spell to protect against future ills. But I promise I'll always do what I can to shield you from the worst of it."

Brennan smiled in response, as bright as the sun. "It's not always possible to live without ghosts, but it is possible to learn to live with them, to shed enough light so they loom less mysteriously, are more understandable. If you guard for the the future, I'll ward off the past, and the present we can handle together."

They exchanged a kiss like none ever seen before—like new stars in a galaxy that didn't know it was dark until the stars exploded, blinding everything in a flash of such heat and brilliance that all the matter around them was thrown back by the explosion. The twin stars ceased their embrace, linked hands, and walked out together.

The subjects of Squintland-Coptopia rose, cheering and shouting, tossing flowers and confetti as Sir Seeley and Princess Temperance passed. They stopped at the back of the church, turning and waving to all the courtiers and subjects assembled. As their hands rose in unison, sunlight flashed for an instant, nearly blinding the whole congregation as a beam fell upon two objects—a band of circling diamonds on the princess' left distal phalange, and a broad silver band on the knight's.

In the pause, they grabbed hands and ran down the stairs to the noble steed awaiting.

"Booth! You said I could drive!" Princess Temperance cried.

Sir Seeley rolled his eyes in frustration. "Bones, it's a Mustang, and I'm the guy. I have to drive, it's a rule. _**Plus**_, I gave you a gun for the wedding."

"Right. And I gave you a membership to the bacon-of-the-month club and season tickets to the Capitals, _**plus**_, I learned to make pie crust. The least you could do is hand me the reins."

He thought for a moment, then tossed her the keys. "It _is_ awfully good pie crust."

They got in and drove off in the late afternoon sun toward the inn where they would lift tankers of mead and goblets of mulled wine with their subjects, Booth only somewhat nervously eyeing the road.

"Bones? Do you think we need a new metaphor?"

Princess Temperance shot him a look. "Are you tired of the fairy tale thing already?"

Sir Seeley shook his head vigorously. "No. I'm just saying… there are lots of ways to tell the same story. It doesn't always have to be the same format, that's all."

Brennan nodded her head. "So, what else did you have in mind?"

Booth thought for a moment, then smiled. "Oh, there's so many to choose from. I don't suppose we have to pick now."

Brennan smiled in return. "Choose your own adventure, so to say?"

"Yeah, Bones. Exactly. But not until after the reception. If those bastards from the Bureau eat everything off the carving stations before I get there, I'm going to get out my broadsword and run them all through."

"Don't worry about it. Lady Angela is distracting them all with champagne and asparagus wrapped in prosciutto."

"Prosciutto. That's a smoked ham, right?"

"I love you, Booth."

"I love you too, Bones."

_**And they lived happily ever after...**_


End file.
